by Lauren Layne
Kennedy swallowed and dragged his eyes back up again, careful not to let his gaze linger on her small but definitely there breasts.
Her hair was mostly the same, but it looked extra shiny, and instead of overwhelming her small features, it seemed to accentuate them, calling attention to the glossy, full lips, the pink cheeks, the . . . angry eyes.
There she was. That was still the same.
“Kennedy. Happy birthday.” Her tone was cool, at odds with the fire in her brown eyes.
“Kate. I understand I have you to thank for the party.”
“Oh gosh, no.” She looked vaguely appalled. “I mean, Claudia asked for my help with the organization, because, well, I’m awesome at it. But this was all her.”
Kennedy nodded. Not that he didn’t appreciate Claudia’s good intentions, but he was relieved, somehow, to know that Kate got him. That she understood he’d have much preferred a different type of party—or none at all.
“Can we talk about the dress?” Lara said, twirling her finger, indicating for Kate to spin. “It’s fantastic! Even more fantastic than it was in the dressing room. Ian, doesn’t she look fantastic?”
“Fantastic,” he repeated with a wink at Kate, who blew him a kiss.
Kennedy frowned at this, too busy trying to wrap his head around this new version of Kate. “When—? What—?” He cleared his throat. “You look different.”
“Nice,” Matt muttered.
“She got her hair cut Thursday, remember? She left early?” Ian mimed snipping motions with his fingers.
“Right.” Kennedy had forgotten the strange anomaly of Kate leaving before eight p.m., much less five p.m. And he’d been out of the office most of the day yesterday on the trading floor, and then at a few off-site meetings.
Besides, it was a hell of a lot more than a haircut. Kate was . . . arresting. And he couldn’t look away.
“You guys going to be here for a bit?” Kate asked. “I’m going to go get a cocktail.”
“I’ll get it,” Ian and Matt said at the same time.
Kennedy had the oddest urge to slap them. Or himself. Why did he not offer? He normally would have for any other woman. But with Kate he was never at his best. Even less so, apparently, when he could see her thigh.
“Nope, stay here,” Kate ordered, already moving away. “I want to check on a few of the vendors, make sure they didn’t ignore my demands. Requests,” she amended quickly. “Also, I have a private bet with myself to see exactly how long that stupid ice sculpture will last.”
“Oh, thank God that wasn’t your suggestion,” Sabrina said with relief.
“Offensive,” Kate said, waving her finger at Sabrina. “Very offensive that you’d even consider it could be mine.”
Kate continued walking away, and the rest of the group began placing bets among themselves on the fate of the ice sculpture.
“What do you think?” Matt asked Kennedy. “How long until that frosty jawline of yours becomes a puddle?”
“I bet a hundred bucks the frown will be the last to go,” Lara said.
“I don’t think anyone would take that bet,” Ian said.
“Will you excuse me a moment?” Kennedy asked, too distracted to respond to their ribbing. He walked away before any of them could reply.
The pink of Kate’s dress made her easy to spot in a sea of the usual New York black. She was talking to a server carrying a tray of champagne, who nodded at something she said. Kate was on the move again before Kennedy could reach her, and he followed her across the room to a table, where she spoke to a burly man behind it wearing a chef hat and holding a carving knife.
He reached her just as the man handed her a plate with a slice of damn good-looking roast beef. “Thanks, Larry.”
“My pleasure,” the man said in a voice higher than Kennedy would have expected for someone built like a linebacker. “You know, this is the first time I’ve worked the USDA prime beef carving station at a dedicated slider bar, but it seems to be a big hit.”
“Yeah, well, the birthday boy’s got a thing for French dip sandwiches. This is the closest I could get while still counting it as cocktail-party-friendly finger food.”
Kennedy froze. She knew his favorite food?
Kate picked up a roll, then pointed at one of the bowls of sauces. “Is that the extra-hot horseradish or regular?”
“One on the left is hot; right is regular. The little signs labeling them had a Chardonnay-related incident. Someone’s getting replacement cards now.”
“Perfect,” Kate said, dolloping a small scoop of the sauce on the right onto her plate. “Regular for me. Who needs the assault on the senses with the hot stuff?”
“It wakes you up,” Kennedy said.
Kate looked over her shoulder, not looking the least bit rattled by his presence as she sucked a bit of sauce off her thumb. “Oh. Hey. What wakes you up?”
He nodded at the dishes. “The extra-hot horseradish sauce.”
“Oh, right. The devil sauce,” she said, taking a napkin off the table.
“Listen, Kate, I—”
“Kennedy! There you are!” He turned toward the interruption and saw Claudia coming his way, dressed in a short navy dress that showed an impressive look at her long legs. He’d thought the dress slightly overkill when he’d thought they were just going to an early dinner with her parents, but it made sense for a party at a trendy rooftop bar.
Strange that a brief glimpse at a sliver of Kate’s thigh resonated with him more than the near entirety of his girlfriend’s legs.
“Hi, Kate!” Claudia said with a friendly smile before turning to Kennedy. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! I should have known the second we walked in, we’d both be swooped into the crowd. I feel like I’ve barely seen you.”
She pressed her mouth to his, and Kennedy dutifully pecked back.
“You love it, right? Tell me you love the party. Kate warned me surprises weren’t your thing, but everyone says that, and I thought, What the hell. You do like it, right?”
Kennedy caught the note of nervousness in her voice and smiled to reassure her. “Of course I like it. Thank you. I was actually just about to dive in to this spread.” He gestured at the carving table.
Claudia glanced over. “Right! That was Kate’s idea.”
Kate lifted her slider in silent acknowledgment, her cheeks full of the sandwich.
“You know I don’t really like red meat, but Kate said you were allergic to shellfish, and we had to feed you something, so . . . good?”
“Yeah. Really good.” As he said it, he looked at Kate, who merely watched him as she chewed.
“Okay, let’s go take a pic with Mom and Dad really quick, ’kay? Then you can dig in and eat all of the roast beef you want, promise. Do you think your parents would be in it?”
“You want a picture of . . . both our parents?” Kennedy asked, trying to ignore the faint warning bell in the back of his head.
“Are you kidding? They’d love it,” said the very last person Kennedy wanted to see right now.
“Hey, Jack,” he said as his brother draped an arm around his shoulders and clinked the neck of his beer bottle against Kennedy’s cocktail.
“Happy birthday, big bro. Did he tell you we’re all embarrassingly close in age?” Jack asked Claudia. “Kennedy is thirty-six, John’s thirty-four, I’m thirty-two, and baby Fitz will be thirty next month. Our parents were busy, am I right?”
“Can we not?” Kennedy said, his appetite fading. “Also, let’s not forget that of the four of us, you were the only accident.”
“Happy accident,” Jack said, unfazed as he took a sip of beer. “Very happy for everyone.” He glanced over, then did a double take, his smile turning flirty. “Well, well. If it isn’t Kate Winslet.”
“You’ve got till midnight,” she said, swallowing, then taking another bite of sandwich.
“Till what?”
“Till the Titanic references expire.”
“Chicks
dig it, Smalls.”
“I’ll definitely take Smalls over Winslet.” She smiled at Jack, who smiled back, and Kennedy looked between the two of them, slightly aghast. Nicknames? No. Just no.
Claudia tugged his arm. “One picture, babe, I promise.”
“Yeah, babe. Don’t worry,” Jack said as Claudia started to pull Kennedy away. “I’ll keep Smalls company.”
Yeah. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
7
Saturday, March 30
The dress? A hit. The new hairstyle? Pretty darn good, given that it was Kate’s first time styling her hair herself without the superpowers of the salon’s blow-dryer.
The shoes? A massive failure. She was no stranger to high heels, but she usually had a two-and-a-half, maybe three-inch limit, and she’d decked out all of her work stilettos with about fifteen different cushions to prevent blisters and the agonizing pain of her current situation.
Kate rested her elbows on the cement railing perched several stories above ever-bustling 42nd Street and tried to look casual as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, giving each foot its break in turn.
A seat would have been preferable, but since this was a cocktail party instead of a seated dinner, chairs were limited, and a woman sitting alone on a chair rubbing her feet was just a little sad. At least this way she could pretend to be looking at the view.
And there was nothing sad about her evening, thank you very much. In fact, it was the best party she’d been to in a long, long time.
Kate was never a wallflower, per se, but even when she was in the middle of things, she often felt on the periphery. She was well aware that she wasn’t the one who sparkled. She was the one who always had a bobby pin, a safety pin, a breath mint, to make sure other people sparkled.
Tonight, though, she’d felt at least a little sparkly. Whether it was the pink dress itself or the confidence she’d felt when she walked into the room, for the first time in her life, she’d felt like people saw her. And though she hadn’t been able to resist keeping an eye out to make sure everything went smoothly, she did so because she wanted to, not because she had nothing else to do and no one else to talk to.
Tonight, everyone had seemed to want to talk to her, not just her circle of friends. It was . . . nice.
Kate always enjoyed her friend circle, but she was also sensitive to the fact that she was a fifth wheel. Seventh wheel, if you counted Kennedy and Claudia, though she preferred not to. She loved spending time with Lara and Sabrina. And with Matt, Ian, and Kennedy. But with all of them together, Kate couldn’t help but feel apart somehow. And maybe just a tiny bit jealous.
Tonight, though, she’d felt like part of a unit, with Jack Dawson of all people.
Kate was no dummy. She knew Kennedy’s brother had heartbreaker written all over him. The man was so charming it should be illegal, and she’d watched as one woman after another had gone literally breathless when he’d spoken to them.
And yet he’d stayed with her almost the entire evening, up until his father had dragged him away to talk to Something Something the Fourth, and Kate had politely begged off in the name of sore feet.
More surprisingly, Jack had seemed to stay with her all night because he wanted to, not because he needed her to fix something for him or solve a problem. He seemed to like her, just as she liked him. He was easy to be around. And yet . . .
A large male figure came up beside her, suited arms resting on the railing beside hers. “What’s with the stork routine?”
She turned her head to look at Kennedy. “The what?”
He lifted one foot, then the other. “Stork.”
“You try wearing these shoes.”
He glanced down knowingly. “Ah. We could sit?”
Her stomach did something stupid at his use of the word we. “Nah, I’m good. Plus, I tried that for about two minutes, but every time someone came to talk to me, I either had to stand or crane my neck.”
“You’re short. Don’t you always have to crane your neck?”
She let out a little laugh and dropped her head forward as she muttered, “You look nice, Kate. Thanks for being here, Kate.”
“What?”
She turned slightly to face him. “Nothing. Do you need something?”
He scowled. “Why is that your assumption?”
“Because I’m your assistant.”
“You’re my friend.”
“Am I?” she said, more to herself than him, as she turned back to the view below the balcony.
He touched her elbow briefly, and she felt a corresponding tingle in her palm. “You don’t think we’re friends?”
“I don’t know what we are, Kennedy.”
He turned toward her. Studied her. “We’re different, huh?”
“You and me?” She turned slightly toward him, trying to figure out what was behind his strange mood.
He lifted his shoulders. “Me and Jack.”
“Definitely,” she said with a laugh.
He looked away, and she had the uncomfortable sensation that maybe she’d hurt his feelings.
“The world only needs one Jack,” she replied softly.
He searched her face. “You two were pretty inseparable all night.”
She didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about but kept her answer vague. “Not really.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t really know,” Kate admitted. “He’d mention a restaurant we both wanted to try or an exhibit we both wanted to see, and he kept saying things like, ‘We should go!’ But I couldn’t tell if he meant it as a date or was just being polite.”
Kennedy turned and faced the railing again, his turn to study the street below. “Probably a date,” he said. “Though for what it’s worth, he’s lying if he says he’s excited about museum exhibits. They’re not his thing.”
“Well, maybe you could lend him your season tickets,” she teased. She knew Kennedy loved his museums.
He rewarded her with a half smile that revealed his left dimple. “Never.”
“Nerd.”
“They’re underappreciated,” he said, his tone a little gruff, as though embarrassed but unable to keep from defending New York’s museums.
“They are,” Kate agreed, deciding to give him a break. “It kills me how often they’re derided as tourist traps. So many locals take them for granted.”
“But not you?” he asked skeptically.
“Well, I’m not going to start collecting globes and crap like you, but yeah . . . I do love a good museum,” she said. Kate didn’t have a specific passion for art, or history, or science. She just liked knowing that museums existed. She liked the feeling of stepping outside New York to a different world, whether it be Impressionist paintings, quirky modern art, or the planetarium, all without actually leaving New York. “Our secret?”
“That we’re cultured?”
She laughed. “I’m cultured. You’re pretentious.”
“Prove it.”
“That you’re pretentious?” she asked, excited at the prospect. “Where to begin. Let’s see, you always—”
He stopped her words, not with a retort or even the usual scowl but by reaching out and setting his fingers against her mouth.
They both froze, and her eyes flew to his. It wasn’t a caress, but neither was it a playful shut-up kind of gesture. It was somewhere in between, his three middle fingers resting lightly over her mouth, his pinkie finger brushing against her jaw, softly, as if by accident.
He met her eyes for only a second before his gaze dropped to his fingers. He frowned slightly, as though puzzled to find himself touching her. But he couldn’t be half as puzzled as she was.
Or as electrified.
Slowly, Kennedy let his hand drop, his fist clenching hard and fast, so quickly she thought she’d imagined it, before he resumed his former position, casually, as though nothing had happened at all. “I didn’t mean list the ways I’m pretentious. I meant tel
l me the ways you’re cultured.”
“Ah.” She tried to gather her thoughts, but she could still feel the warmth of his touch. Wanted to replay it a thousand times over. Wanted to ask her friends what the heck it had meant . . .
He’d asked her something. What was it? Right, culture.
“I used to dance.”
He gave her a skeptical look.
“Ballet,” she clarified, “until I was seventeen and decided I didn’t want it badly enough to go all the way. I probably wasn’t talented enough, either. But I still love it. I’d go more often if it wasn’t so expensive.”
“I didn’t know that about you.”
She shrugged. She doubted Matt or Ian did, either. “It’s not your job to know things about me. It’s mine to know things about you.”
He was quiet for a moment, looking thoughtful. “What else?”
“Um . . .” She bit her lip and considered. “I love old books. I mostly just read classics on my Kindle, because my apartment’s too small to keep much of anything. Someday, though, I’m going to have a collection of first editions. Or second or third editions. Whatever. But, I should be honest, I’m also really into young adult books. If it’s for a teen, I love it. If it’s got a vampire or an alien and a love story, I really love it. Go ahead. Judge.”
He leaned toward her and spoke quietly, pointing at himself. “Spy novels.”
She gasped in mock horror. “No. You? Who quotes Shakespeare?”
He gave another of his half smiles. Left dimple again. “What else?”
“I play chess. I played every weekend with my grandfather, and then every day when he lived with us while I was in high school.”
“You guys still play?”
“No, he’s passed now,” she said a little wistfully. She hadn’t thought about those quiet nights with a chessboard and an old soul in ages.
Kennedy was silent, then turned his head over his shoulder for a moment, scanning the slowly dwindling crowd. “You have to do anything else for the party?”
“What do you mean?” she asked, confused and a little disappointed by the change in subject. It was one of the more civil, enjoyable conversations they’d ever had.
