Page 9 of Anti-Hero (Kensingtons: The Next Generation #2)

I ’m concerned I’m going to throw up. Not because my stomach hasn’t fully recovered from the food poisoning last week, but because this suddenly seems like an insane idea.

I’m going to work for Kit Kensington . And I have no one to blame but myself and my damn pride. And Isaac. I blame Isaac too.

Cheating on me was bad enough. But the sleeping with my boss bit?

That’s the sin that resulted in this particular predicament.

For a few seconds, I contemplate unblocking my ex, simply to cuss him out again.

We haven’t spoken since I walked in on evidence of his infidelity, and the shocked swears I spit at him then no longer feel like enough of a punishment.

A shoulder knocks against my left arm, making me stumble. I’m wearing my nicest heels—my nicest everything . I woke up at six a.m. to ensure I had time to straighten my hair and apply a full face of makeup before walking to the subway stop two blocks away.

Watching people walk into the skyscraper that houses Kensington Consolidated’s corporate offices, I still feel underdressed. I’m in a sea of suits that cost four figures. Maybe even five.

A wayward elbow hits my bag, and I finally move forward. Standing stock-still on a New York sidewalk is asking to get knocked over like a bowling pin. Especially during commuter hour.

I focus on single steps—one foot in front of the other—as I approach the revolving doors. I pick the center one, which winds up spinning the slowest.

It feels about twenty degrees cooler inside of the lobby.

August’s heat has bled into September, blanketing the city in a sticky layer of humidity that the vents are working overtime to counteract.

They blast the sweat on my skin. I suppress a shiver as I stride toward the front desk as surely as I can manage in four-inch heels with dwindling confidence and increasing anxiety.

“Name?” the receptionist asks when I reach her. She doesn’t glance up, busy stamping a form and then typing on the keyboard in front of her.

“Collins.” I clear my throat. “Collins Tate. For Kensington Consolidated?”

The woman looks up, a flash of interest breaking through her practiced expression.

Her manicured fingers keep up their rhythmic tapping on the keyboard as she appraises me.

My unpolished ones drum against the pristine counter as I take note of her sleek bun (professionally styled) and winged eyeliner (sharper than a knife’s edge).

Part of my first paycheck might need to go toward a new wardrobe.

Staying in my pajamas most days was the best part of unemployment.

“One moment, please,” she tells me, continuing to type.

I nod, pasting a polite smile on my face as I pull my water bottle out of my bag and swallow a large sip. Cold liquid hits my empty stomach, prompting a loud gurgle. I was too nervous to do more than nibble on a granola bar this morning. Now, I’m nauseous and hungry.

“This guest badge will allow you to access the elevators.” The receptionist slides a laminated rectangle toward me. “You want the fifty-fifth floor. Someone will direct you from there.”

“Thank you,” I say, grabbing the badge and joining the crowd funneling through the turnstiles.

A swipe of the barcode at the bottom allows me through, and then I hurry into the nearest elevator. When I press 55 , the six other people in the elevator all stare at me with open curiosity.

I have a better idea as to why when the doors part on floor fifty-five.

The waiting area looks different from the other floors the elevator stopped at.

Modern and expensive and prestigious . The floor gleams like it was freshly polished.

The walls boast artwork that looks intricate and expensive.

The front desk is larger than the one in the lobby.

Imposing. And, front and center, metal letters affixed to the wall spell out Kensington Consolidated .

The law firm I worked at in Chicago handled a lot of corporate business. So, I guess I expected these offices to look similar to theirs. But Carter Thomas LLP didn’t radiate importance the way this space does .

The blonde woman sitting at the front desk is on the phone. She holds up a finger, mouthing, One sec , as I approach.

I nod, nervously smoothing the skirt of my dress as I wait for her call to end. I stood on the subway, but it still appears wrinkled. One thing the humidity could have helped with.

Two gray-haired men step off the elevator and continue past the desk and down the hallway. They’re deep in conversation, neither so much as glancing my way.

A fresh flare of panic appears. What if Kit shows up next while I’m standing here, waiting for direction? What would he say? What would I say?

I debated asking Lili for her brother’s number all weekend. Who knows how that conversation would have gone? But at least Kit and I would have communicated since I’d snuck out of his hotel room.

I couldn’t do it though. I was too worried Lili would read into it, that she would somehow realize what had happened between us.

And I was—am—a coward who wasn’t sure what to say. One night managed to erase years of ease in dealing with him. My playbook was simple—ignore, avoid, or argue. Leave the adoration to everyone else. But none of those reactions are realistic as his employee.

I’ve been exasperated by seeing Kit before. Irritated, often. But never nervous , and it’s messing with my head.

“Good morning.”

The greeting startles me from my thoughts. “Oh. Hi. Good morning.”

The receptionist smiles kindly. She’s older than me. Late thirties maybe. She looks wise and worldly, and I’m betting she never slept with her future boss.

“I’m Maya. You must be Collins Tate. ”

“Uh, yes. I am.”

My surprise that she knows my name must show on my face because Maya shoots me a conspiratorial look.

“A new Kensington in the office causes a bit of a stir around here. Because of, you know …” She glances over her shoulder at the letters attached to the wall.

I focus on the first word, my gaze drifting over each letter individually. Kensington . It looks as important as it sounds.

“Right,” I reply.

I do know. Lili’s graduation party was the most lavish event I’d ever attended.

Filled with politicians and actors and all manner of famous, influential people, in the most stunning house I’d ever set foot in.

A summer home. I had known long before then that Lili came from a very different world than I did, but that was the most drastic example.

The moment I’d met my freshman roommate, I had been aware of our different backgrounds, and it’s been reiterated every time I’ve met a Kensington.

It’s unsurprising that Kit would be paid more attention than other employees. It is, however, far from ideal. I’m anxious enough without the glare of a spotlight following me around by association.

“Take a seat. I’ll let Laura know you’re here,” Maya tells me. “She’ll be the one to show you around, help you get settled.”

“Great. Thank you.”

I take a seat on one of the couches, fighting the urge to tap my foot as I wait. I settle for playing with the clip on my badge and staring at the large clock on the wall instead.

Ten minutes later, another woman appears. She’s wearing an elegant wrap dress. Her dark hair, pulled back in a low ponytail, is threaded with a few streaks of gray. Her posture is perfect, steps purposeful.

She adjusts the tortoiseshell glasses perched on the bridge of her nose before holding a hand out to me. “Laura Skadden. Nice to meet you, Ms. Tate.”

I stand in a rush, gripping her palm and hoping mine isn’t damp. “Nice to meet you too. And it’s just Collins, please.”

Laura nods once in swift acknowledgment. Briefly, I wonder if anyone who works here doesn’t thrive on brisk efficiency. I can’t picture Kit working amid such somber organization. Usually, if he’s not grinning or joking, he’s about to grin or joke.

“Right this way,” Laura instructs, spinning in her sensible short heels and striding down the hallway.

I follow, my stomach twisting with a new batch of nerves.