Page 52 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

“This car must be worth a lot, and you leave the keys on the tire?” I ask incredulously.

Kit shrugs. “It’s convenient. The garage is locked and monitored. Never had an issue. ”

I really hope our kid inherits Kit’s lack of cynicism and pessimism.

I climb inside the fancy car, buckling my seat belt and relaxing against the buttery leather.

Kit starts the engine, but he doesn’t begin driving.

“I thought we were in a rush?” I ask.

“Were you jealous?”

I glance out the window, pretending there’s something more interesting to stare at than concrete walls. “A little.”

When I look at Kit again, he’s smiling.

I sniff, miffed. “Glad that amuses you.”

“Do you have any clue how many guys I’ve wanted to punch for talking to or touching you, Monty?”

“How many?”

“All of them,” he answers softly.

I smile. “Sadie seems nice,” I admit. “I know it’s silly. I’ll get over it.”

“There’s nothing to get over, Collins. Nothing’s ever happened between me and Sadie.”

“Really? You guys seemed … friendly. And she came to the office that time.”

“She came to the office to ask me for a gym recommendation. We’d worked out here at the same time before, but she wanted to take classes someplace.”

“A gym recommendation,” I repeat. “No, you’re right; she’s definitely not interested.”

He grins. “I didn’t say she wasn’t. I wasn’t, and I told her why. Told her about you, and she said I should just ask you out. I told her it was complicated, and she just figured out that meant you were my assistant and pregnant. ”

Oh .

I like that he told Sadie about me. I like it a lot.

“Your Indiana Jones costume? I called it a cowboy one because the guy I went to that Halloween party with said I should’ve gone with the cowboy I was staring at all night.”

A slow smile spreads across Kit’s face in response to my admission. “So, I wasn’t only gorgeous freshman year?”

Of course, he memorized the compliment I’d accidentally let slip.

“You’re incorrigible,” I sigh.

Kit chuckles as he reverses out of the spot. “You love it.”

I love you .

The words pop into my head, which they’ve been doing regularly.

Kit starts driving before I can decide if this is the right moment to say them.

Our dinner reservation is at one of the fanciest restaurants in the city. Not the steak house we ate at before, but it has a similar ambiance. Cloth napkins and flickering candles and soft jazz playing in the background.

The biggest difference? Unlike the last time we went out to dinner, I feel relaxed. Happy. An involuntary smile stretches across my face as we get settled at our table for no reason except that I’m excited about this evening.

“What?” Kit asks.

“I was just thinking about the last time we went out to dinner together, at the steak house.”

“Yeah.” He chuckles at the memory. “About time we did it again, huh?”

Our waiter appears, delivering water glasses and rattling off specials. Kit declines ordering a beverage, and I do the same. I’ve noticed he avoids drinking alcohol around me, which seems like the exact sort of considerate choice Kit would make.

I’m dunking a square of focaccia in olive oil when my phone buzzes with a call. I check it, then slide it back into my coat pocket. “My mom, checking in,” I tell Kit. “I’ll call her back tomorrow.”

He nods. “Have you talked to your dad lately?”

I shake my head. “No. But that’s normal.”

Kit sets down his menu and exhales. “I think you should talk to him, Collins. For real. Ask for an explanation about what you saw.”

“He’s had years to explain.”

“He doesn’t know you’re waiting for him to, Collins.”

“I’m not. I mean, what could he possibly say that would make it better?”

“I don’t know. But wouldn’t him saying something be better than never knowing? Staying stuck in the same place with it? You want our kid growing up, wondering why you’re acting strange around your dad?”

I dunk my bread again. “You’re playing dirty.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m right. And I think you know that, that you wanted a push to talk to him, or you wouldn’t have told me about it.”

“It’s just so strange to think of my dad … having an affair. He wears tweed suits. He always smells like coffee. And he’s a scientist . They’re supposed to deal with logic and reason, not secrets.”

“Chemistry isn’t logical or reasonable, Monty. It’s filled with all sorts of mysteries. Are there any undiscovered elements? What is the composition of dark matter? How did nonliving matter transition into the first living organism? ”

He says all that , then casually sips some water.

I stare at him for a few seconds. “You’re kind of a nerd, Kit Kensington.”

He grins. “Thanks.”

“Will you do me a favor?” I ask.

“ Another one? I already contributed my nerdy genes to our kid. If Eggplant wins a Nobel Prize one day, it’ll be ’cause of me.”

I roll my eyes. “Just … don’t act any differently around my dad, okay? He likes you, and I like that you guys get along. I don’t want my issues with him to affect that. Okay?”

Kit hesitates before nodding, but he does nod. “Okay. But for the record, I still think you should talk to him.”

“I’ll think about it,” I allow.

The waiter returns to take our orders, and then our entrées are delivered in record time.

“This doesn’t look as good as yours,” Kit comments, picking up the knife and cutting into his chicken.

He’s lying—when I made chicken this past week, it turned out dry and bland—but he says it with such conviction that I almost believe him.

My response? “I love you.”

The words slip out easily, naturally, like I’ve said them to him a hundred times before. But I haven’t. In my head, I’ve said them a lot. Counting a few seconds ago, I’ve said them aloud exactly … once.

And I did say them aloud.

Kit’s blue eyes are wide and surprised as he looks up from his plate.

Did I freak him out? I think I freaked him out. Technically, this is our first date. First date to four-letter word is a big leap.

Even embarrassed, I don’t regret saying it. I want him to know how I feel, even if he’s not there yet. Even if he never gets there.

I pick up my fork, attempting nonchalance.

Pretending I have said those three words to him a hundred times before.

“My chicken was dry. I saw a recipe for chicken parmesan that I was thinking I’d try to make next week.

The tomato sauce should help with the consistency.

Do you know if there’s a meat mallet anywhere in your gigantic kitchen?

Because I tried looking for one and I?—”

“Collins.”

“I’ll just buy one,” I decide.

“ Collins .”

I reach for my water. “You don’t have to say anything. We can talk about?—”

“I’ve been in love with you ever since I saw you, Collins Tate.

” He pauses, letting that sentence sink in.

“Maybe it started as a crush, but it was never a game to me. I was a goner from the start. You thought arguing about whether a hot dog was a sandwich or bringing up Monaco was going to deter me?” He grins.

“I just fell harder. I was trying to give you some time to catch up to where I’ve been for a while. ”

Tears fill my eyes, making my vision blur. “I’m really hormonal,” I whisper.

“Damn it.” He reaches across the candles to brush his thumb against my cheek. “I was hoping it might have been because of my romantic streak.”

“You factored.”

Kit laughs under his breath, brushing my cheek once more before withdrawing his hand.

He doesn’t say it again, and neither do I. But it lingers as an invisible, shimmering awareness through the rest of dinner.

“A bar?” I ask dubiously.

After dinner, Kit drove us to a bar. And it’s not even a nice bar, like the one I was supposed to meet Perry at months ago. It’s a dive, with a flickering neon light and a boarded window and no line for entry. The kind of place I’d go for cheap beer in college.

“You’ll see.” He tugs me toward the entrance by our joined hands.

Reluctantly, I follow.

The interior is about what I expected. Vintage sports memorabilia decorate the walls. The bartender is a grizzled older man with a toothpick sticking out of the corner of his mouth. And my heels stick to the floor with each step, like the wooden boards haven’t been washed in this century.

The size of the crowd inside is the only surprise. The booths and the stools lining the bar are all full.

I stare at Kit until he looks at me. He smirks at my confused expression, pulling me deeper into the bar.

“… on? Is this on? Oh great, it’s working.”

I track the sound to the raised stage that sits at the very back of the bar.

Stage is a generous term for the platform raised a few inches higher than the rest of the floor, but the microphone, chair, and piano add to the effect.

A middle-aged man is standing at the microphone, fiddling with the wire wrapped around the stand.

“They do an open mic night on Saturdays,” Kit whispers in my ear. “All musical acts welcome.”

The realization of why we’re here hits a second later. “What? No!”

“Yes.” He steers me toward one of the open tables closest to the stage.

No one wanted to sit right in front, and I don’t either. But Kit isn’t asking. His grip on my hand is sure and firm as he leads me over to the central spot.

“Want anything to drink?” he asks once we’re seated.

“What I want to drink isn’t an option until May.” If there was any chance of me getting on that platform, it’d be higher with alcohol involved.

Kit leans closer. “C’mon, Collins. Play for me.”

“And”—I tabulate a rough estimate of the room—“fifty other people?”

“You’ve played for a larger crowd.”

I have. Recitals at Yale were attended by hundreds.

But that was different. I was one of dozens of students performing. And it was a piece I’d practiced for weeks or even months. I don’t even have sheet music with me. I’d have to play from memory, and who knows how that will sound?

Aside from Kit, everyone here is a stranger. People I’m unlikely to ever see again. It’s silly that I’m preoccupied by what they’ll think. But I’m a perfectionist by nature. Making mistakes or messing up never feels natural.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Kit asks, like he’s reading my thoughts.

Maybe he is. He knows I’m not impulsive or reckless. Jumping onstage to perform in front of strangers is something he would do, but I wouldn’t.

“I mess up, everyone laughs, and we can never come back here.”

“Then we go home. When you can drink again, we’ll head to one of the other thousand bars in this city instead of this one and its humiliating memories.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re making fun of me. ”

“I’m encouraging you, Monty. You don’t want to play professionally again? That’s fine. It’s your decision, and I’ll respect it. But I know you love playing. So, play.”

I gnaw on my lower lip, glancing at the stage. The man is still up there. Now, he’s kneeling in front of an amp. I watch as he stands and returns to the microphone.

“All righty, we’re open for business, folks. You know the drill. If you’re new here and you don’t, first come, first serve. Five-minute max per performance. Second shifts if the stage sits empty, but not before. Happy Saturday.” He hops off the platform and heads for the bar.

No one rushes toward the stage. It sits, empty and waiting, right in front of me.

I feel Kit’s eyes on me, but he says nothing else. If I stood up and walked out of here, he’d drive me home. But I’m suddenly sick of playing it safe. I want to be worthy of his faith in me. What is the worst that will happen? Nothing I can’t recover from.

I stand and start toward the stage.

I take a seat in front of the studio. It’s brown, not black, the wood surface scarred with years of use instead of flawless. I’m too proud to bang out the series of single notes I played in Kit’s living room earlier. Sitting here, I know I’m going to commit to a full piece.

I glance at Kit. He’s reclined in his chair, relaxed and smiling as he stares at me. A few other patrons are glancing this way, but their attention is fleeting, not focused. Passing interest, not intent.

There was a time when I dreamed that performing in New York would mean playing at a famous venue, like Carnegie Hall. But watching Kit wink at me, a confident grin on his handsome face? I decide that who’s in the crowd matters a lot more than its size or location.

And then I start to play.