Real Regrets (Kensingtons Book 2)

The best sex of my life wasn’t supposed to be with my wife. And it wasn’t purely physical, either. I always put effort into making sure a woman enjoys herself, but it was more than that last night. I was completely focused on Hannah, consumed with making sure her pleasure was the priority.

I rationalized it as the one-night stand we never got to have, the night we ended up married instead. But it felt like more than that. It felt meaningful.

So did waking up next to her again.

I shouldn’t have stayed in her bed. I was stunned she offered, but I shouldn’t have stayed. It muddied everything more. And now I’m dreading returning to her house.

“You ready to head in?” Eddie calls.

“Sure,” I shout back, then lean forward on the board to begin paddling in. My hands cut through the chilly, salty water, the occasional wave helping to propel me toward shore.

This is about the only move Eddie taught me that I’m any good at. I tried to catch a few waves when we first got out here. After three unsuccessful attempts, I opted just to bob on my board and stare at the brightening horizon.

The Pacific Ocean is peaceful and calm this morning, which isn’t ideal surfing conditions. But it’s good for self-reflection.

I always wake up early, but I never reflect. I drink coffee and eat oatmeal. Work out. Shower and put on a suit. Then go into the office.

This is the first morning in a while that’s felt leisurely. Ironic, since I got about three hours of sleep. My eyes should be barely staying open. But I don’t feel sluggish.

Sunbeams filter down from the blue sky, sparkling off the textured surface of the sea. The beach is a sandy strip ahead, dotted with the green leaves of palm trees. And I woke up beside a gorgeous blonde who made me come harder than I ever have in my life.

And that’s the problem.

I wasn’t supposed to enjoy this trip.

“Too bad we didn’t have better waves this morning,” Eddie says, paddling up beside me.

“I don’t think I would have gotten up no matter what the waves looked like,” I reply.

He laughs. “Nah, you just need a little more practice.”

“I’m not much of an athlete.”

“Me neither,” Eddie responds. “Bit of a letdown to the Dean Garner.”

The words are light, but I catch the undercurrent. Because while this might be my first time surfing, I have decades of experience when it comes to disappointing fathers. “He seemed happy enough not to have any competition last night.”

A wide grin stretches Eddie’s face. “Hannah usually wins. Dad was thrilled to have her out of the way.” He glances at me. “She’s his favorite. Deservedly so. Rachel and I never took much interest in croquet or the sports agency. That was all Hannah. She’s his protegee.”

I say nothing.

“He’ll test you, but he wants her to be happy.”

I’m not sure if I’m understanding right. Because it almost sounds like Hannah’s brother is suggesting I’m the person who can make that happen. “We’re getting divorced, Eddie.”

“Yeah, that’s what Hannah said.”

I nod, glad we’re on the same page.

“Except I’ve seen her with other guys, and she never looked at a single one of them the way she looks at you.” Eddie drops that declaration on me, then glances toward shore. “Race you!”

He wins.

And it’s mostly because this is the first time I’ve ever tried surfing.

But also because the mess in my head is becoming more snarled, instead of untangling.

When I walk into the kitchen, Hannah is standing at the stove wearing a light blue dress and cooking eggs. Her hair is loose and messy, and all I can think about is how it looked spread across her comforter.

Suddenly, startingly, scarily, I can see it. I can imagine walking into this kitchen every morning to this sight.

She glances up as I approach the island.

“Hey.” Her smile is guarded, and the dread in my stomach turns to lead. “Sleep well?”

“I got a few hours.”

“I didn’t hear an alarm.”

I guess we’re not pretending we didn’t spend the night in the same bed. “I was trying not to wake you.”

She nods, sucking in her bottom lip as she continues pushing eggs around the pan. “I can tell my dad you needed to leave, if you want. You don’t have to go to the game.”

“I want to come, as long as that’s okay.”

Hannah’s expression shows surprise, but she doesn’t try to talk me out of going. “Okay. Yeah. Of course that’s okay.”

I rest a hip against the edge of the counter. “I’ve never been to one,” I admit.

“A baseball game?”

I nod.

“You’ve never been to a baseball game?”

I shrug. “My dad was more into golf and polo. And my mom…” My voice trails, obviously, since I can’t come up with any way to finish that sentence.

Since I don’t talk about my mom.

“Is it okay if I take a shower?”

Hannah nods, jerky and fast. “Yeah, of course.”

I continue through the kitchen and down the hall, trying to get my head on straight. I need to stay focused on the point of this trip: one step closer to being divorced. As soon as that’s taken care of, I can decide what to do about Quinn. How to handle everything with my father.

Hannah has plans too. She might not have a second marriage breathing down her neck, but she’s intending to start school in the fall. Her whole life is in California: her family and her careers, both present and planned.

After I’ve rinsed all the stickiness off and gotten dressed in a clean suit, I return to the kitchen.

Hannah is sitting at the island, eating eggs and reading something on her computer.

When she spots me, she coughs.

I wait for a suit comment, but it doesn’t come. If I had something more casual to wear, I would. But I don’t. It’s just become easier to make it my default uniform no matter what else I’m doing. Even at home, ever since I had to stand to get a paper during a video call and revealed I was wearing sweatpants with my button-down.

“If you’re hungry…” Hannah nods toward the skillet on the stovetop. “Plates are in the cabinet to the left of the sink.”

“Thanks.”

I pull a plate out of the cabinet and heap it with eggs, which are still steaming.

I can’t recall the last time someone made me breakfast. Based on the size of the pile in the pan, Hannah made a lot more than she was planning to eat herself.

“Do you want coffee? I can make—”

I shake my head. “Eddie and I stopped.”

“He took you to Pacific Beans?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. I had to catch two waves in a row before he brought me there. Took me five sessions.”

“Well, that definitely didn’t happen.”

“You couldn’t get up?”

I glance up, and there’s a pause where pink crawls across her cheeks.

“On the board, I mean. You couldn’t get up on the board?”

I smirk, my gaze dropping to the plate as I finish heaping eggs on it. “Maybe if you’d been there.” I’m flirting, and it’s a fucking terrible idea. But letting last night fester between us doesn’t seem smart, either.

The dynamic between us changed the second I kissed her last night. Grown-up actions should come with grown-up behavior. We’ve handled being married as maturely as possible. Acting like two hormonal teenagers who fooled around for the first time and then pass each other in the hallway, pretending not to know each other doesn’t seem like the right way to handle this.

Hannah says nothing as I take the stool beside her. But she doesn’t move away when my knee accidentally brushes hers.

I shovel a bite of eggs into my mouth, suddenly starving. They’re cooked perfectly, light and fluffy and not over-salted.

“What are you working on?” I ask, nodding toward the screen.

“Just reviewing a contract.”

“When are you going to tell your dad about architecture school?”

“If I don’t get in, never.”

“And when you get in?”

There’s a lot I don’t know about Hannah.

But I do know she’s one of the smartest, most dedicated people I’ve ever met. That was driven home over and over again during the croquet game last night. If I was a gambler, I’d put all my money on her. If she wants to be an architect, I can’t picture a world in which she won’t become one.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to…disappoint him.”

“He’ll be happy for you, Hannah.” I’m equally certain of that. Because I’ve seen a father who only views his child in terms of the value they bring to the family business. And that man isn’t Dean Garner.

“What about you?” she asks, turning on her stool so she’s facing me.

I swallow another bite of egg. “What about me?”

“Do you want to work at Kensington Consolidated?”

Oddly enough, it’s a question I’ve never been asked before. It’s always been expected I would, like my life was a highway without exits ending at a single destination. I guess the logic is, why wouldn’t I? My family founded one of the most powerful, successful companies to ever exist. New employees walk into the building with wide eyes and awed expressions, disbelieving they’ll be working within the legendary four walls. Walking away from that legacy would be a shocking betrayal.

“I’m good at it. I like it.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

My fork plows through the yellow pile on my plate. I take another bite. Swallow. “Say you had a client come to you. His grandfather was the general manager for this underdog team. Built it up from nothing, made it into something. His father played for them, setting all the records. And they make him an offer. Give him a chance to contribute to the legacy. To add his name to the history books. If he signed, would you ask him why he wanted to play?”

“So it’s pride?”

I exhale. “It’s complicated, is what it is.”

My father’s offer is on the tip of my tongue.

Hannah has joined a short list of people whose opinions I value. I’m not sure when or why or how it happened, but she’s on there. I barely know her. But it feels like I know enough, and for some reason I can’t make sense of, the brief amount of time I’ve spent around her has been enough to make me certain of that.

And I’d like to hear her perspective, what she thinks about the proposal. She already knows about Candace, even. She has some sense of why my relationship with my father is even messier than most people think.

But she’s also my wife.

And she’s also the woman who I had sex with last night. Who I woke up next to this morning.

Telling her that part of the urgency behind our divorce is so I’m free to potentially propose to someone else sounds like a terrible idea for different reasons than before.

I’m not worried she’ll drag the proceedings out to spite me, the way Scarlett suggested. I’m worried how she’ll react, period.

If she doesn’t care, it will sting.

If she does care, it will hurt.

So I keep my mouth shut, aside from finishing my breakfast.

“You done?” I ask Hannah, once my plate is clean.

She looks away from her laptop screen, where she’s been focused for the past few minutes. It must be something important. Or she’s avoiding talking to me, after how I shut the last topic down.

“Yeah.”

I grab her plate and pile it on top of mine, carrying both over to the sink and start to rinse them.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“If you want to, uh, do something, we can go…do something.”

I raise both eyebrows. “As heartfelt as that invitation sounded, I’m good staying here until the game. I have work to do too.” I never sent Scott’s email requesting the updated quarterly statements, and I’m sure lots of other questions have piled up in my inbox by now.

Hannah slides off her stool. “That doesn’t mean you have to do dishes. You’re a guest.”

“You cooked. And I’m your husband.”

Never, ever did I imagine I’d be saying those words standing in a tiny bungalow a few blocks from the beach. Life has a funny way of spiraling from one small decision.

“That doesn’t count as a reason. We’re not really married.”

“We’re not?” I squirt some soap on the sponge and start scrubbing the plates. “Been consummated and everything.”

“So…we’re discussing that?”

“Nothing to discuss. I’m just not pretending it didn’t happen.”

“It was a judgment lapse.”

“Probably,” I agree. I would have called it a mistake, but I don’t say that. And standing in the kitchen with her watching me wash dishes, I’m not so sure it’s an accurate descriptor. Because mistakes are choices you’d go back and change, and I definitely don’t feel that way about last night.

“Are you sure you don’t mind if I work?”

“I’m sure.” I finish the dishes and dry my hands, Hannah watching me the whole time.

“The last guy who saw me do work on a Sunday told me my dad wouldn’t fire me.”

“The last woman who cooked for me was my mom. Thanks for breakfast.”

I leave her standing in the kitchen and walk down the hallway to the work that’s always waiting for me.

Hannah’s family picks us up just after noon. Her entire family. Dean is driving, with Cynthia in the passenger seat. April, Eddie, and Rachel are taking up the middle row. Rachel climbs out so that Hannah and I can crawl into the third row.

Cynthia offers her seat to me, but I politely decline.

It takes some maneuvering to get into the seat, much less get comfortable. The stiff fabric of my suit isn’t meant for twisting and contorting, and there’s little space to work with.

Hannah’s lips twitch as she glances over at me, my knees folded in front of me so high they nearly reach my chin.

It’s cramped and warm in the rear of the car. The sun is on full blast, turning the temperature up to the mid-seventies. It’s a shock to my system since New York hasn’t passed sixty in months.

I’ve never ridden in the way back of a car before. Just like with breakfast, it’s a realization that occurs to me randomly. It’s usually just me and a driver in a vehicle, the same way the people who cook for me are always paid to do so.

Once we’re moving, Hannah pulls her feet out of the footwell and taps my knee, tugging it toward her. I accept the silent invitation, stretching my legs out so they cross the center seat and taking advantage of the full length of the car. It’s still tight but not quite as cramped. Hannah is the one huddled up now, her long legs mostly hidden beneath the skirt of her dress.

I lean over and grab her foot, pulling it toward me until her leg is in my lap. After a second of hesitation, her second leg slides over too.

Neither of us say anything.

Music is on, and the windows are down. Rachel and Eddie are arguing about something in the middle, while Cynthia is telling Dean what route he’s supposed to be taking to the stadium. He’s insisting he knows a better way.

There’s a lot of noise and activity around us, and somehow that makes this feel more intimate. My right elbow is resting on the cupholder beneath the window, but I place my left on her calf because I’m not sure where else to put that hand.

This could certainly be defined as another judgment lapse. But I shove those thoughts away and focus on the scenery flying by. I’ve only been to Los Angeles a few times before, and the most recent time was years ago. All those trips were centered around work, the same as most of my travel.

These are all new parts of the city to me: the residential streets, the glimpses of the beach and boardwalks, the huge stadium we park outside.

April is the one who pulls a seat forward this time. She smiles when she sees me and Hannah tangled together, and we quickly separate. I climb out first, since I’m essentially blocking Hannah in. And then turn, offering her a hand. She tumbles out of the car, her foot getting caught up in the hem of her dress. I half-catch her, stumbling back a step as her body collides with mine.

“Sorry.” She pulls away immediately, grabbing the side of the car for support instead.

“It’s fine. You good?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Her tone is casual, but her cheeks are red, obviously aware of her entire family staring at us. I nod and step away, putting more distance between us.

We join the streams of people crossing the parking lot, heading into the stadium. Then we split off to a private entrance that leads to an elevator, which takes us to the top of the field.

The view from the box seats is impressive. The contrasting stripes of green neatly mowed, the tan dirt immaculately raked, and the four white bases blinding in the sunlight. An array of food and drinks is spread out behind the indoor seating, and a door leads out into an uncovered section of seats that are closer to the field. A group much larger than ours could comfortably fit in here.

Everyone gravitates toward the food first. There’s multiple kinds of salad, pizza, chicken tenders, grilled hot dogs, and pretty much every kind of food considered quintessentially American.

“Oliver.”

I stop in my tracks as soon as I hear Mr. Garner say my name.

Rachel, who’s right ahead of me, pauses, glances back, and then continues walking.

“Yes?”

Hannah’s father’s expression is impassive as he studies me, and I resist the urge to fidget. He may not know what happened between me and his daughter last night, but I sure as hell do. And it’s all I can think about right now, unfortunately.

“Hannah mentioned you’ve never been to a game before?”

I nod, relaxing a little. Might as well set the bar on my baseball knowledge as low as possible. “That’s right.”

“I can safely assume you’re not a San Francisco fan, then?” There’s a new gleam in his eyes, what looks a little like amusement.

“Up until right now, I had no idea San Francisco had a baseball team, sir.”

Shockingly, he cracks a smile before reaching into the canvas tote bag he’s carrying and handing me a baseball glove. “In case anyone hits up here.”

I take the glove, running a finger over the smooth, oiled leather. “Thank you, sir.”

“Dean is fine, Oliver.”

Then he walks away, leaving me with the sinking suspicion Hannah’s father might actually approve of me.

After the game, Hannah and I get dropped off first. I changed my flight after breakfast, so I’m departing LA at five thirty. With the time difference, I won’t be back in New York until after two a.m. But it was worth it, I decide, as I say goodbye to Hannah’s family and the black SUV pulls away from the curb.

As we walk up toward her porch, Hannah hides a yawn. My baseball knowledge hasn’t expanded very much from what I knew before the game—the team with the most runs wins and three strikes before you’re out—but Dean did his best to explain it to me. As far as fathers-in-law go, I could have done a lot worse. I met Dean yesterday, and have had more civil, non-work-related conversations with him in these two days than I have with my father in years.

But from a broad perspective, I think it’s fair to say this weekend was a total failure. I don’t think I’m unlikeable, but I wasn’t expecting to be embraced by Hannah’s family the way I was. Based on how silent she’s been this afternoon, I don’t think she expected it either. Our marriage feels more real than ever, instead of an arbitrary, alcohol-influenced decision.

I set out my suitcase in the entryway before we left for the game, expecting it to be a tight turnaround to get to the airport following the game. I left my phone charging on top of my bag, since I forgot to plug it in overnight the way I ordinarily do. Not having it with me was nice, actually. I couldn’t check emails or answer calls.

“The car should be here in a few minutes,” I say, breaking the silence hovering between us. Hannah nods. I already told her I ordered one.

I kneel down and unzip my suitcase so I can add the baseball glove her dad insisted I keep. When I straighten, Hannah is staring at the luggage.

Her attention snaps to me with a jerk of her head, and then she’s walking toward me, closer and closer until I realize she’s planning to hug me.

I wrap my arms around her waist, tugging her closer. She smells like grapefruit and salt, a scent I recognize from the perfume bottle in her medicine cabinet. I snooped while looking for more hand soap in the bathroom. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail with a pink-patterned scarf, and the soft silk grazes my neck as we stand like that.

There’s no compulsion to pull away, even long after the appropriate length of time for a hug to last has passed. Her body is warm and pliant against mine, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to pull her dress up.

My hand drifts higher and higher, until I reach the exposed skin of her upper back. We’re close enough I can hear the change in her breathing, the way that deep and even quickens.

Her head turns so her lips are against my neck. And then with a deliberate, measured swipe, her tongue traces a small circle right next to my Adam’s apple.

Fuck it, I decide. We already had sex once.

I pull back just far enough to kiss her, groaning when she responds immediately. Moving into me like she was waiting for this. Hoping for it.

I start gathering the skirt of her dress in my hands, tugging the fabric up, and she steps away, breaking all contact.

I drop my hands immediately, swallowing my disappointment, even though I know it’s for the best. I’m not thinking rationally, so it’s good to know she is.

Except her hands are suddenly on my belt buckle, her fingers unzipping my fly and tracing my growing erection through the fabric. And I realize she isn’t acting as a voice of reason.

My boxer briefs get tugged down and then her fingers close around me. Hannah watches her hand stroke over the tip of my dick, and I watch her. Register the way her lips curve and her blue eyes heat with desire as my cock swells under her touch.

I’ve been battling an erection around her all day. It’s a sweet relief to succumb to the lust, to let it build in the base of my spine.

My head hits the wall with a soft thud, an involuntary groan spilling out when her hand moves lower, gently squeezing my balls before she strokes my taint. My dick jumps, a powerful burst of need rushing through me as she grips me again, pumping and gripping and teasing.

I grunt, thrusting in her hand as my release rises. My gaze falls to her hand, the sight of her jerking me off just as arousing as the sensation.

My phone rings, sharp and insistent, from its spot on my suitcase. Without looking over, I know it’s my driver.

Hannah stills, her grip tight but unmoving. “You have to go.”

“Yeah.” But I’m not leaving like this.

Her hold loosens until it falls away, color rising in her cheeks before she looks down at the ground and I lose sight of her expression. She’s embarrassed, and I’m more amused than sympathetic. I like that she got caught up in this, same as me.

I set a hand on her waist and spin her around, so she’s the one against the wall. Her inhale is surprised and fast, becoming labored breaths as I slide a hand under her dress and between her legs. She’s fucking soaked.

“Take off your underwear,” I tell her, pulling a condom out of my pocket and rolling it on. Earlier I felt stupid for stashing one there. Right now, I’ve never been more grateful for anything.

Hannah only hesitates for a second before reaching under her dress and tossing away what looks like a scrap of lace. I’m very glad I didn’t know that’s all she was wearing while we were at the baseball game. It probably would have shredded my self-control down to nothing.

“You might miss your plane,” she warns.

“Worth it.”

Hannah laughs. It quickly turns into a moan, as I lift one of her legs and enter her in one hard thrust, groaning as I feel her inner walls clench around me.

I fuck her with frantic strokes, and it has nothing to do with the ticking clock to get to the airport. It’s that I can’t get enough, that the split-second when I’m not inside of her feels too long. I’m addicted to the feel of her, to the ways she gasps and moans and begs, my name mingling between yes and fuck and more.

There’s a primal element to the roughness too. Something I don’t understand and can’t control. I need to be deep in her. I want her to feel me for days. The next time a guy approaches her at a bar, I want Hannah to doubt whether he’ll be able to make her feel this good.

She writhes against me, and I wish we were both naked. Wish this was happening in a bed, so I could explore her body with my hands and my tongue, then fuck her for a second time.

Distantly, I’m aware of my phone beginning to ring again. But we both ignore it.

Hannah is close to coming. I can feel the clutch of her cunt fluttering around me. As soon as I reach above the spot where I’m entering her and rub the nub of nerves there, they turn into powerful spasms.

It sets off my own release. I can’t talk myself out of coming. I’ve been hovering on the precipice for too long, a slow burn that’s been simmering ever since I woke up next to her and sparked the second she unbuckled my belt.

Bolts of heat race down my spine as my balls tighten and my cock twitches. She’s tight and hot and wet, and I come inside of her until I can hardly see straight.

The pleasure fades slowly, the harsh sting of reality replacing it.

Reluctantly, I pull out of her and step away, tucking myself back into my pants and then walking into the kitchen to throw away the condom and wash my hands.

Hannah hasn’t moved when I return to the entryway. She’s slumped against the wall, her chest still heaving from the high.

My phone rings again, and this time I answer it. “Oliver Kensington.”

“Hello, Mr. Kensington,” a male voice says. “I’m at the address you requested a car to…”

“I’ll be right out,” I tell the driver.

“Very good, sir.”

I hang up and slip my phone in my pocket. All my other belongings are neatly packed in my suitcase, ready to go.

I’m not, though.

I glance at Hannah, who’s straightened. Aside from a few wrinkles, her dress looks the same. She gnaws on her bottom lip, playing with the hem.

“Well, thanks for coming.”

I huff a laugh, and a small smile creeps across her face.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

Still, I don’t move. I’ve never experienced this obsession with someone before. I just had her, and I’m already desperate to start all over again. It’s an addiction, growing worse with each hit.

“Um, text me when you land, okay? So I know you made it.”

I nod.

It’s a sweet sentiment, and it also freaks me out. Because there’s more than obligation in her question. There’s a sincerity that’s meaningful and noticeable. Mainly because it’s been glaringly absent in my life up until now.

If I died in a plane crash, my dad’s only concern would be how it would impact the company. Crew would view it as more than a corporate loss, but I know he would move on too. His daily life wouldn’t look all that different without me in it.

It’s a relief to know I’m not the only one caught up in this craziness between us.

But mostly?

I’m worried. I don’t want to know that this matters to her. That I matter to her.

Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m just projecting my own feelings, getting caught up in the hot sex and how her family welcomed me.

And since this has already become messy and confusing, I don’t resist the urge to kiss her one final time. It’s gentle and sweet, the total opposite of how I was just touching her.

“Bye, Hannah.”

“Bye, Oliver.”

I don’t look at her as I grab the handle of my suitcase and walk out the door, knowing this will probably be the last time we’re in the same room.

From here until we’re divorced, all of our communication should go through our attorneys. It will be simplest, fastest, and safest.

The driver is waiting on the sidewalk just past Hannah’s front yard. I apologize for the delay and climb into the backseat. The air conditioning is on, countering the rays of warm sunshine coming through the windows.

“Did you have a good trip, sir?” the driver asks, as we pull away from the curb.

“Yes, thanks,” I reply.

But good isn’t the right adjective.

I don’t know how to summarize my trip to California.

I don’t know why I decided to come to begin with, and now I’m even more confused about this entire visit.