by K. A. Linde
The door slid open soundlessly. I slipped inside and impatiently tapped my foot as it whisked me upstairs, opening directly into his apartment. I’d been impressed the first time I walked into his place. All clean, modern lines; open, airy floor plan; and Central Park views. I was used to Hollywood, and this was so New York. But I was over it now.
Everything about it just reminded me that Court Kensington had grown up with a silver spoon in his mouth. He might be the hottest, most eligible bachelor on the Upper East Side, but to me, he was just another client for me to clean up his messes.
“Court!” I snapped as my heels clicked onto the polished hardwood floor.
No response came from the confines of his apartment.
I should have known. The man drank like a fish and partied like a rock star. There was no way he would be awake at this early of an hour.
It wasn’t stopping me. Not today.
“Court!” I called again.
I strode across the living room and down a hallway that led to his bedroom. The door stood already partially open. I toed it the rest of the way and breezed inside, flicking the lights on.
And what I saw stopped me in my tracks.
Court Kensington’s naked body laid out facedown like Adonis on his pure white sheets. His bare ass visible for the world to see.
I swallowed.
I’d seen some gorgeous bodies before. I worked as a celebrity publicist, for Christ’s sake. It was part of the job description. We dealt with asshole rock stars, entitled actors, and everything in between. I’d paid off prostitutes and thrown away condoms so they couldn’t be used as evidence and seen more dick and pussy that I wasn’t fucking than I needed to see in a lifetime. And still, Court made me come to a screeching halt.
Fuck, he was hot.
I hated that he was hot.
That he was the kind of grade A asshole I’d been all over before I met Josh. Before Josh …
I ground my teeth. Just the thought of what he’d done to me brought me straight back to reality. Nothing like finding out your movie-star husband was fucking his costar to ruin your morning.
“Court, get your ass out of bed.”
He tilted his head to the side, squinting up at me through a vision of long lashes. “English?” he groaned.
“That’d be me,” I said. “We need to talk.”
He blinked a few times and then propped himself up on his elbow. “What time is it?”
“Almost eight.”
“In the morning?” he asked blearily.
“Yes. Now put on some fucking clothes. I’ve had a really long night, and I would like to get this over with.”
“Can we do this some other time?” he asked as he pulled the pillow back over his head.
“Does it look like I’m fucking around?”
He peered back up at me. I didn’t know what he saw, what degree of not-taking-your-shit was on my face, but he nodded. “Fine.”
I hustled back out of his bedroom, trying to clear the vision of that muscular ass from my mind. I knew he’d take his sweet time. So, I brewed a pot of coffee. Because what I really needed was more caffeine in my system.
He came out fifteen minutes later in a pair of black joggers. He pulled a white T-shirt on over his head as he walked into the living room. His six-pack still visible for the few seconds before the material fell over his stomach.
He tousled his dark hair and quirked a smile at me. “That for me?”
“Here,” I said, handing him a mug of coffee.
“So, what’s this all about?” he asked around a yawn.
I set my empty mug on the counter. “What in the actual fuck were you thinking last night?”
“What do you mean?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You went to an underground gambling ring. The party was raided by the police. You barely made it out in time.”
“Oh … yeah. I mean, I hadn’t expected the party to get raided,” he said with a shrug.
“You went to an underground gambling ring!” I cried. “Need I remind you that you were recently arrested with your girlfriend for fraud and grand larceny? That the only reason I was hired was to keep you out of trouble, to show the world a softer side of Court Kensington? So that you don’t ruin your mother’s reelection campaign for mayor of New York?”
“First of all, there were no charges against me. And second, Jane isn’t my girlfriend.”
“She was at the time, and literally no one else cares that you weren’t charged. They see you as the train wreck who doesn’t care about crime. While your mother is tough on crime. If you’d been arrested last night, can you even imagine the consequences?”
Court shrugged. “It would have been fine. You’re blowing the whole thing out of proportion.”
“Am I?” I asked. “I would have lost my job. Lark likely would have lost her job. Your mother would lose the primary run. And you, you’d be right back where you started before you had me. We’d lose all ground.”
“Fine. Whatever. I messed up.” He set the mug down on the coffee table. His blue eyes had shuttered, gone cold. “Can I go back to sleep now?”
“No. You didn’t just fuck up. You royally fucked up. You took the one weekend I was out of town and fucking did this on purpose, Court!”
“I didn’t know…”
“But you didn’t leave either!” I snapped back. “You saw it was illegal and played poker all night. Lark had to drag you out of there, and you didn’t even want to leave.”
“Okay. I get it. Fuck, English. I fucked up. Get off my case.”
“Oh, excuse me for being the first person in your life to hold you accountable for your actions,” I ground out.
I knew I was being harsh on him. But he didn’t even fucking care about what it would have done. The problems he could have caused. He was so nonchalant. And I just couldn’t accept his response. It wasn’t enough. There was no change coming from acknowledging he had done something wrong. It didn’t fix his behavior.
Court stepped forward. His teeth ground together. “What the fuck has gotten into you?”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t need you to lay into me at eight o’clock in the morning for something that didn’t even happen.” His eyes assessed me as if he could see right through the jet lag and coffee buzz and anger to what was lurking below. “What are you even doing in New York? Aren’t you supposed to be in London with Josh?”
“I came back early.”
“Why?” he demanded. “You were raving about your trip.”
He glanced up and down, judging what was in front of him. Seeing me like I didn’t like anyone to see me.
“Doesn’t fucking matter,” I said, losing some of my edge.
“Why aren’t you wearing your wedding ring?”
“That is none of your business.”
A spark of pity flashed through his cerulean-blue irises. “English…”
“Don’t,” I ground out. “We’re here to talk about you. And the fucking shit that you pulled while I was gone.”
Anger flared in him. He took another step closer. So close that we nearly shared breath.
“This has nothing to do with me,” he growled. “You’re putting your own fucking personal problems on me. I don’t have to deal with this shit, English.”
My own anger was ignited by his. “I’m not doing anything of the sort. I’m here to whip your ass into shape. I’m not here to coddle you like everyone else in your life. If you don’t like it, take it up with your mother. She’s the one who hired me to fix your bullshit before you lose her the election.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Court snarled. “You can put me down and treat me like an ass if you want. But I see what the fuck you’re doing, English.”
“Good. Then you’ll stop acting like someone who needs his hand held every time he walks out into public?”
“Berate me all you want. This is about you and Josh. Not me.”
“Go fuck yourself.�
�
His eyes widened a fraction at the words that left my mouth. The fury that had nothing to do with him. But that I was using against him.
I’d thought that I had it all under control. I’d had such a picture-perfect life. I was married to the Josh Hutch. He was the biggest up-and-coming movie star on the scene. He’d been handpicked to remake the Bourne trilogy. I was the top celebrity publicist at my agency in LA. Everyone wanted to work with me. We went to premieres and sipped champagne and lived the life.
Except that hadn’t been right, had it?
I’d wanted more. That was why I was here. To use this as my next step to achieve my dreams: to open my own agency, a place to work with fewer clients, ones who actually cared and didn’t just need someone to secure cocaine and make sure their sex tapes didn’t end up on the internet. Or did, depending on the person. So, when I’d gotten offered to work for the Kensingtons, step into New York high society, work for a political candidate, I’d thought it was my chance.
And now, all of those pieces were crumbling into ash.
I was left staring into Court Kensington’s impossible baby blues. Wondering where it had all gone wrong. And how I could fucking fix my life like I fixed everyone else’s.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Court asked after a tense, silent minute.
He’d moved a step closer. Our breaths mingled. I could feel the heat rising from his skin. The fury that pulled us together like magnets. A sense that we were both so beyond fucked up that, impossibly, we were attracted to each other. We hated each other so supremely that, somehow, at any second, it could tip the other direction.
His eyes darted to my lips. I drew a line across the bottom one with my tongue. A reflex. Or was it?
My breaths came out irrationally loud. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Time slowed until seconds felt like hours. And we just stared, edged, hedged, waited, wondered, wanted.
And then the moment the scales tipped and he moved forward—as if he was actually going to do it, actually going to cross that divide—I jolted out of that awareness. I shoved him back away from me.
“Fuck, Court,” I cried.
His eyes rounded as if he couldn’t believe for a second that the playboy prince had misread the signs. Then he returned to careful neutrality. Born out of boredom and masks and societal pressure.
“Are you done?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m fucking done. I’m going back to LA.”
“What?” His eyebrows rose.
“Don’t get too excited. Just for a few days to handle some business. I don’t want you to fucking leave this apartment until I get back. Are we clear?”
“I am not on lockdown again.”
“Yes, you are. Because I can’t trust you not to do something that will land you in the papers.”
He glared at me. Any warmth we’d been mustering evaporated. “Whatever.”
“Be a good boy,” I said, patting his cheek twice.
He looked like he might bite me for the insult, but I was already storming toward the elevator to leave this hellhole. He muttered something under his breath, but I didn’t catch it. I assumed he’d called me a bitch.
But as soon as the elevator doors closed, I leaned back heavily. God, maybe I should get some sleep. What the fuck had I been thinking?
I had only one rule: don’t get involved with clients.
I’d never broken it.
And I had just almost kissed Court Kensington.
2
English
I couldn’t get what had almost happened out of my mind.
Court Kensington was objectively the worst client I’d ever had. Not because he was particularly difficult to work with or because he was a drug addict or a sex fiend or any number of other impossible things I’d dealt with. It was because he didn’t want me. He didn’t feel like he needed a publicist. That I just got in his way.
And even though, over the last couple weeks, he had started to listen to my advice, he still didn’t want my help. Everyone else came to me. They needed someone to cover up a sex scandal. They needed me to hide an affair from their wife. They wanted someone who could get their career back on track after the stint in rehab. On and on and on.
Court wanted nothing to do with it.
He was the worst, and he made my job hell.
Still, I’d been an inch away from kissing him.
And I didn’t even like him. Or want to kiss him.
I sighed as I parked my Mercedes in front of my dad’s house in the Valley. I knew why I was obsessed over this. It was easier to think about a stupid almost-kiss with Court than it was to deal with Josh. Or the fact that he was still in London, shooting the final Bourne movie with his costar Celeste. Or that I’d just cleared out my belongings from his house and had them shipped back to New York. Or that I was going to have to file divorce papers.
End the perfect marriage.
I closed my eyes and choked back that thought. I didn’t want to divorce Josh. I’d thought we were forever. But I wasn’t a pushover. I wouldn’t be used. And there was no fucking way that I would ever forgive what he’d done to me.
I still didn’t want to do it.
Nor did I want to walk inside and face my dad, stepmom, and half-sister, Taylor. But I couldn’t come back to the city and not see them. So…here I was.
Swallowing my frustration, I pushed my shoulders back and stepped out of the car. It looked so out of place out here. I looked out of place.
My dad worked a camera for a local news network. He made okay money, but Ashley didn’t work, except to sell some direct sales products. It changed every time I was here. Last time, it had been something to do with her nails; the time before that, she’d had a collection of super-soft clothes. And I was pretty sure she’d done a bender on essential oils. She meant well, but I didn’t think she’d had any real success with it.
I stepped up to the front door and knocked. I impatiently checked my phone, tapping my high-heeled foot like a bad habit, and brushed a speck of dust off of my white jeans. Why the hell had I worn them here?
When I’d gone to the house I’d shared with Josh the last three years, I’d torn everything else out of my closet, except this outfit. I’d hired a company to pack up and ship everything that remotely belonged to me. Every scrap of me would be gone from Josh’s house by the time he returned from London.
Now that I was here, I should have just gone with shorts and sneakers. I was used to dressing up for my job, and I planned to head to the agency after this. But it still felt wrong.
The door opened. Ashley stood there with her platinum hair in a messy bun on her head and a wide smile on her face. “Anna!”
“Hey, Ash,” I said to my stepmom.
I knew that she liked me to call her mom, but I’d never been comfortable with that.
She stepped back to let me in. “Joe! Anna’s here.”
I followed her inside. My insides squirmed as I looked around the house I had spent high school in. The same couch and picture frames and shaggy beige carpet. No one in Hollywood would guess that I was a girl from the Valley.
“Don’t you look beautiful,” Ashley said. “Look at those shoes! I’d break my neck in those.”
I laughed. “You get used to them.”
“If you say so.”
Ashley was really great, except that she was my stepmom.
My dad appeared then in a ratty Dodgers baseball shirt and the same shorts he’d had since I was a kid. He half-smiled at me. As much enthusiasm as I ever got from him.
“Hey, Bug,” he said. “What brings you all the way out here?”
I reminded myself not to grit my teeth. He didn’t mean to sound accusatory every time I came to visit. “I was in town. Thought that I’d come see you all before I headed back to New York.”
“Oh, right. Don’t know how you can survive that city.”
“You’ve never even been,” I said wi
th a small laugh.
He shrugged. “Don’t have to go to know LA is the only place I ever want to live.”
“Can I get you a drink?” Ashley asked, breaking up the conversation.
“Sure. Whatever you have is fine.”
“Margaritas it is!”
My dad sighed. “She’s driving. Just get her a Coke.”
“A Coke is fine,” I confirmed with a defeated Ashley.
She slipped out of the living room, leaving us alone. We stood in silence for a few minutes. Things had never been the same between us. Not since the divorce. Even before that. I never forgot the person he’d been. And then he’d gone and married someone else. It didn’t matter that I liked Ashley. He’d replaced my mom and then gone and replaced me.
“Taylor’s at the beach with some friends,” he said as if reading my thoughts.
“Sounds fun,” I mused.
“She’s not having the kind of fun you did.”
I swallowed back my rising anger that said I didn’t need this shit after the week I’d had. “Can’t all be that lucky, I guess.”
“We’re moving her out to New York in a few weeks,” he said on a sigh. “Can’t believe she got into that fancy art school up there. Nothing I said could convince her to stay in LA and be smart about it.”
I’d almost forgotten that Taylor had gotten into The New School. That she was actually going was even more shocking. That my dad, who had ridiculed me for going to UCLA and getting what he considered a useless film degree, would let her go. I had no idea how they were going to afford it. The school alone had to be fifty thousand dollars a year. Not to mention paying to live in New York City.
“That’s…wow,” I stammered out.
“Will you look out for her?”
My eyes rounded. “What?”
“You know…you have that job. Where you do…whatever you do,” he said evasively, not meeting my eye.
“I’m a publicist.”
“Yeah, that. You keep people out of trouble. Taylor isn’t used to the big city.”
“She grew up in LA, Dad. She’s going to be fine.”
“LA and New York are different.”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine. The last thing she’ll want is me interfering in her life.”
