Real Regrets (Kensingtons Book 2)

When I wake up, I’m alone in bed.

The surroundings are familiar. I’ve spent the past four nights sleeping in Oliver’s penthouse, since I requested to work Thursday and Friday out of the New York office so I could stay here through the weekend.

Today is Oliver’s friend Garrett’s wedding.

And tomorrow, I’m returning to Los Angeles.

Returning to reality.

Oliver and I have spent the last few days acting like an actual married couple. We wake up together. Go to work. Eat dinner together. Lie out on his balcony together. Go to sleep together.

I’m waiting to get sick of it.

I thought I would be sick of it by now. But all I feel is disappointment, staring at the subtle indentation on the pillow next to mine and knowing I’ll only see it for one more morning. That I’ll soon be back in my bungalow, planning another renovation in an attempt to add some excitement to my life.

I climb out of bed and pad down the hall to Oliver’s office. The door is half-closed, so I push it open slowly.

Oliver is sitting at his desk, unsurprisingly. He glances up from a pile of papers as the hinge squeaks, his expression distracted. It settles into a smile when he sees me.

“Morning.” My voice is raspy from sleep.

“Morning. I tried not to wake you up. I have a call with Tokyo in three minutes.”

“It’s six a.m. on a Saturday, Oliver.”

He sighs. “I know. They wanted to talk today, urgently. It’s a deal we’ve been chasing for a while.”

I take a few steps closer, emboldened when his attention remains on me. His eyes trail up and down my body as I walk toward him, and I return the favor.

A white t-shirt and dark gray joggers are a really good look on him, especially since the bulge below the waistband suggests he didn’t bother putting on any boxers.

I surprise him—and myself—when I don’t stop walking until I’m climbing into his lap, straddling his growing erection.

Oliver groans as his palms land on my bare thighs, the rasp of callouses and heat of his hands sending sparks across my skin. “Go back to bed. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

My hips move back and forth, teasing the growing bulge.

I’m intensely aware of what’s driving this urge. I’m leaving tomorrow, and after that there will be no trips to New York. The next time I see Oliver—if I see him again—we won’t be married. And what is only a piece of paper has come to mean something to me. It’s an invisible string, something tying us together that isn’t shared by anyone else or affected by anything.

His breathing quickens, the tendons in his neck straining taut. “The rest of the day, I’m yours. I won’t do any work.”

“Do you promise?” I ignore the modifier.

He’s mine—temporarily. He knows we’re a ticking clock, just like me.

“I promise.” Oliver groans, his fingers tightening on my hips as they continue moving. “Dammit, Hannah.”

I giggle. The thrill of him responding to my touch the same way I react to his is a high. I’m not wearing any underwear, so all that’s separating us is the thin material of his pants.

Oliver’s hand inches higher and higher on my leg, until he’s under the flimsy fabric of my negligee. His dick twitches when he discovers how wet I am, something primal and proud heating his gaze.

He glances at the phone, then the clock. “Sixty seconds, Hannah.”

I don’t realize what he means at first. His palm cups my breast, the touch gentle and teasing. His thumb barely brushes my nipple, but it floods me with need and want and feeds the addiction I’ve developed to Oliver Kensington.

I cry out when he suddenly pinches my nipple, the burst of pain reverberating throughout my entire body and heightening my lust.

“Fifty seconds.”

He means it. If I don’t come by then, Oliver will stop touching me.

And I could get myself off, but it wouldn’t be as satisfying. He’s what my body wants.

“Oliver.” I love saying his name. Love the way his expression changes, some secret shift that’s a response to my voice.

“What do you want, Hannah?” One finger pushes inside of me, curling against a spot that sends sparks of pleasure flying through me. “You want to fuck my hand and pretend it’s my cock?”

I moan, pressing my face against his neck and inhaling deeply. The expensive scent of his cologne is familiar. Comforting and arousing, all at once. I’m used to the scent on his skin. On the sheets I sleep on. For the rest of my life, it will always remind me of him.

“Thirty-nine,” he murmurs, amusement saturating his voice.

My hips rock faster, my entire body tight and aching with need. A second finger stretches me open. And then, finally, his thumb touches my clit. My entire body jerks, the zap of sensation pushing me higher as he rubs small circles around the swollen spot.

“Twenty, Hannah.”

I grind against his hand, forcing more pressure and focusing on that one spot.

“Ten.”

His fingers curl, hitting a sensitive spot inside of me. And then I’m coming, collapsing into him as shuddering pleasure crashes through me. The wild rhythm of my heart blocks out every other sound, gradually slowing until I can hear and think and breathe again.

Oliver is already on the phone. He watches me with a satisfied smile on his lips, slumped in his lap, as he listens to whatever is being said on the other end of the line and nods along.

I start to get up, but his arm tightens, trapping me in place against his chest. When I glance up, the line of his jaw is sharp and tensed. I give in, relaxing against his chest, and the muscle relaxes.

At some point, I fall asleep in his lap.

Savannah is already waiting when I climb out of the car Oliver insisted on calling for me. Her light brown hair is swept back in a neat chignon, a few strands blowing in the slight breeze. It’s a perfect spring day, sunny and low humidity. And early enough on a Saturday that New York’s normally bustling streets are mostly deserted.

“Hey, Savannah.”

She spins, the front of her white trench coat blowing open with the motion.

I’m dressed casually, in jeans and an oversize Yale sweatshirt that belongs to Oliver. It was a shock to discover he owns comfortable clothing. And since I was only planning to stay in New York for three days, I’m short on clean clothes. And wedding guest attire, which is the reason for this outing.

“Hannah!” Heels clip against pavement as Savannah hurries over. She hugs me, then pulls back to survey my outfit.

She, of course, looks much more fashionable. Back when I visited New York more frequently, Savannah was the one who always styled me when we’d go out.

I brace for judgment, but all she does is raise an eyebrow. “You look happy,” she says.

“Is that code for homeless?” I tease.

Savannah laughs. It’s light and airy, like a tinkling bell. And I’m quickly reminded of why New York wasn’t for me, how I always felt inadequate.

But I don’t now. There’s nothing I’d rather be wearing than my favorite jeans, a comfy sweatshirt, and sneakers, my natural waves pulled back in a messy bun. I’m cozy and warm, and I’m not wondering what strangers on the street think of my appearance.

“No. It’s not what I would wear. But it works on you.”

I smirk. “Thanks.”

“Let’s head to Fifth first.”

“Sounds good.”

I figured that would be our first stop based on our meeting point and Savannah’s expensive taste. Which is exactly what I need for today.

Garrett Anderson’s wedding will be a who’s who of New York’s elite. I can only imagine the cost of some of the dresses that will be worn there. And I’m showing up with Oliver Kensington, which will draw attention.

Attention I’m worried about, honestly. Attention that I didn’t think Oliver would want.

“Have you talked to Rosie lately?” Savannah asks as we walk along the sidewalk. She and Rosie know each other from growing up in the city, which is how I first met her. Unlike Rosie, Savannah never left Manhattan.

“Not for a few days,” I answer. I’ve been avoiding it, knowing she’ll have many questions about why I’m still in New York. “You?”

“For a few minutes yesterday. She was busy with Jude.”

“He’s nice. I met him on my last visit to Chicago.”

“Well, he’s lasted longer than most.” Rosie tends to fall fast and hard, and then lose interest just as quickly. I’ve always envied her ability to be so willing to stumble. It’s rare, I think, to be so consistently open. Of course, Rosie is usually the one ending things, which is an easier position to be in.

“What about you?” I ask. “Any guys?”

Savannah blows out a frustrated breath. “No. There aren’t many straight men working in the fashion industry. And work has been so crazy and hectic, I’ve barely gone out. I didn’t get home until almost midnight last night.”

“Seriously?”

She nods. “No one leaves until Scarlett does.”

My stomach twists at the mention of her name.

Savannah scored a coveted assistant editor position at Haute last fall, which she was ecstatic about. The one time we ran into Scarlett and Crew at a restaurant, it was all she talked about for the entire meal. It made me wish I’d confessed my history with Crew to her back when our fling was taking place, but I never did. Rosie is the only person I told.

“I’m surprised she works that late,” is all I say.

“She leaves at five and comes back at eight, usually. I don’t know how she does it, honestly. She knows everything that happens at Haute, oversees rouge, and is a wife and mom. And rumor at the office is, she’s pregnant again.”

I wonder if Oliver knows, if it’s true.

We don’t discuss Scarlett and Crew, aside from when he mentioned them last night. In the few days I’ve been basically living with him, there’s been no evidence of any communication, making me think that Oliver wasn’t exaggerating the disconnect between him and his brother. Or maybe they only talk at the office.

“Okay!” Savannah claps her hands together once we reach the corner that intersects with Fifth Avenue, startling a nearby pigeon pecking at a hot dog wrapper. “What look are we going for?”

All I told her via text was I was in New York, needed a new dress for an event, and asked if she was free to go shopping.

“Wedding guest.”

Savannah’s eyebrows rise a half an inch. Every other time we’ve gone shopping, it’s been for slinky club attire or professional workwear. “Okay…what’s the dress code?”

“Black tie.”

“Venue?”

“It’s at the New York Public Library.”

“Tonight?”

I nod.

She puts the pieces together immediately, which I’m expecting. Savannah follows New York society closely. “I didn’t know you’re friends with Sienna Talbot.”

“I’m not. I’ve never met her. Or Garrett Anderson.” I pull in a deep breath. “I’m going with Oliver Kensington.”

Savannah abruptly stops walking. “You’re dating Oliver Kensington?”

“No. I’m just going to a wedding with him.” I shrug a shoulder, putting on a good show of indifference as we walk along the sidewalk.

“How-how did you meet him?”

I hesitate, knowing she’ll mention this to Rosie the next time they talk. The main reason I texted her is I want to look good tonight, and that isn’t what I should be concerned with.

“At a bar.” I opt for some version of the truth. Rosie won’t share the whole story with Savannah, knowing I want to keep the marriage a secret.

“Have you slept with him?”

“No,” I lie. “Maybe tonight, after the reception.”

“So he’s not dating Quinn Branson?”

My head whips in Savannah’s direction, my breakfast churning unpleasantly in my stomach.

“Who’s that?” I don’t keep up with New York society anymore, but I recognize the names of most power players.

“Leonardo Branson’s daughter,” Savannah replies. “She just moved back from London. She and Oliver were photographed at dinner together, with Garrett and Sienna, last week. Most people were assuming she’d be at the wedding with him.”

She’s the woman Oliver was out with on Friday night, I realize. The one he said he wouldn’t be going out with again. The worries those words swept away so easily come back in full force. She’s more real with a name, and it sharpens the realization Oliver will move on with someone else, if not her. Forcing me to confront how much that idea bothers me.

Savannah is waiting, expectantly, for me to say something.

“He’s never mentioned her,” I tell Savannah. “We met, hit it off, and he invited me to the wedding.”

“Huh.” Savannah pauses, glances at the display in the front window of a store, and then continues walking. “Well, Oliver has always been different.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s totally focused on Kensington Consolidated. If I was worth billions, I’d take a vacation every once in a while. But he doesn’t party, never gets photographed with women. That’s why everyone made such a fuss over the photos last weekend. Some people are speculating they’re engaged, and that’s why he was seen with her.”

“Oh.”

Savannah glances over, her expression creasing with concern in response to whatever look is on my face. “Leonardo Branson does business with Arthur Kensington. He probably asked Oliver to connect his daughter with the right people, now that’s she’s back in town.”

I nod, my mind still a mess of thoughts. My family and Rosie know about my marriage, but I haven’t confided in anyone about how real it seems. I have feelings for Oliver that go much deeper than lust or attraction, and no idea how to navigate them.

“Let’s go in here.”

Blindly, I follow Savannah inside a brightly lit store and over to a long rack of colorful dresses, trying to shake off the anxiety and second-guessing. The terror that I’m in so deep with Oliver that I won’t be able to dig myself out. It never felt like this with Declan. With anyone else. Like falling, with nothing to hold on to. No way to stop myself.

“Any budget?” she asks.

“No.” My voice comes out dull, so I clear my throat, trying to summon back some of my earlier excitement. “And I’ll need shoes and a handbag too.”

Oliver handed me a black credit card before I left. And since this is the last night we’ll probably spend together, I fully intend to go all out.

Savannah grins at me, and I force an answering smile.

At least I’ll look good on the outside, even if I’m a mess on the inside.

Oliver’s standing in the kitchen when I walk into the penthouse, studying his tablet. I guess he reverted to his workaholic ways while I was gone.

He looks up, taking in all the bags I’m holding. When he sets down the tablet, I realize he was watching a baseball game, not staring at documents.

“I see you gave the card a good workout.” He smirks at my overloaded hands.

I want to smile back. Want to walk over and kiss him.

But I’ve done too much of that lately. I need to remind myself what my life will be like starting tomorrow. That I’m an independent woman with goals and ambition, not a pampered princess in a fairytale.

I fish the credit card out of my jeans’ pocket and toss it on the spotless countertop. “Consider it our divorce settlement.”

His cheek twitches. A tiny reaction, but one I notice. Neither of us have mentioned our pending divorce in the past few days.

But I can’t lose sight of the fact we’re not an actual couple. That Oliver doesn’t want a wife and will soon be spending his limited breaks from work with other women, some of whom might have sophisticated British accents. I looked up the photos Savannah mentioned in the car ride back here. The woman he went out with was stunning. Quinn Branson looks like exactly the type of woman a successful billionaire would date. And maybe marry, if Oliver ever changes his view about it.

I never thought I’d have to remind myself to protect my heart. With every other guy, it’s been my natural instinct. I’ve been too detached, according to most of them.

“Did you have fun with Savannah?” There’s a hesitant note to Oliver’s voice, as his gaze trails over my tensed posture.

He’s obviously sensed the shift in my mood. I left here smiling. And he has the audacity to remember Savannah’s name, even though I only mentioned it once. The thoughtfulness just pisses me off more. This would all be a lot easier, if he was as bad at relationships as he claims to be.

“Yeah, it was fun.”

“You were gone for a while.”

I lift a shoulder and drop it carelessly. “Nothing to do here.”

This time, his jaw clenches. His only response is a stiff nod before he glances back down at his tablet. I can see him retreating, shutting down. Exactly what I was hoping for, but I also hate that it’s happening.

“Car will be here in an hour.”

“I’ll be ready.”

I grab my bags and leave the kitchen, walking down the hallway and into the guest bedroom for the first time.

Oliver’s entire penthouse is professionally decorated, all matching furniture and coordinated shades. It’s beautiful, but empty. It’s obvious he doesn’t spend much time here.

The guest room is all shades of blue. I drop my bags on the navy comforter and then head across the hall to grab my bag of toiletries from Oliver’s bathroom. Thankfully he’s still in the kitchen, so I don’t have to navigate another stilted encounter.

I rush back into the guest room, shutting the door and leaning against it with a sigh, acting like I just completed a perilous mission.

I exhale, trying to release the anxiety in the same rush. I thought I’d be able to handle this better.

All week, I knew this had an expiration date. I thought simply knowing that would protect me. That logic would soften the blow. That this would be a fun fling with a guy I’m intrigued by and attracted to. That’s the problem, though. I’m too intrigued. Too attracted.

I just got into my dream school, hundreds of miles away from where Oliver lives and works. My past is entangled with his family in an awkward way. And most importantly, Oliver has never given me any clear indication he wants this to last.

We were never going to end any other way.

I never thought we’d end any other way.

But thinking about it won’t stop stinging, like the invisible, persistent slice of a paper cut. I never thought inevitability would hurt this much.

I head into the bathroom with my bag of toiletries, stripping out of the jeans and sweatshirt and stepping into the shower. Everything in here is made of marble: the floor, the counters, even the walls. All the light fixtures and accents are black metal.

I don’t register much of the luxurious surroundings beyond those contrasting colors, stepping behind the glass pane and turning on the shower head. It has ten different settings, because of course it does. I opt for rain.

Warm water falls in gentle pelts as I scrub and soap and shave. Reluctantly, I shut the shower off and grab one of the fluffy towels hanging on a hook, drying off and then wrapping it around my torso as I pad across the tile floor until I reach the vanity.

The mirror is covered with steam since I forgot to switch on the vent. I brush my teeth and comb my hair while I wait for it to clear.

I usually straighten my hair, so I decide to curl it for tonight. Thanks to the natural wave in the texture, I have to straighten and then curl it, which takes twice as long. Time I don’t really have, since I delayed coming back here until the last possible minute. Once the last spiral falls, I comb through the curls, spray them, and then pull a few pieces back with bobby pins. Satisfied with my hair, I start on my makeup.

The dress Savannah talked me into purchasing is bolder than I was planning to wear. The last wedding I attended was for an older cousin. That one took place in Santa Monica, right by the beach. Most of the guests were barefoot for the ceremony and the reception. It was casual and bohemian and nothing like the chic events I’ve attended here.

My dress tonight is a brilliant teal, a departure from the navy or black gowns I usually wear to fancier events. There are ruffles gathered at the shoulders and capping the hem. It has a sweetheart neckline that’s fairly modest, but the back is sheer lace, with a delicate column of fabric buttons running down the center.

I feel pretty with it on. It’s beautiful armor.

Two minutes remain in my hour by the time my makeup is finished. I rush into the bedroom, still in a towel, pulling the matching clutch and silver heels out of their bags. The clutch is only big enough for my phone, credit card, and a tube of lip gloss. I shove it all in, praying I’m not forgetting anything.

There’s a knock on the door. I spin, pulse pounding.

“Hannah?”

“Yeah?” My grip on the towel tightens.

“The car is here, and traffic is bad. Are you ready?”

“I’m naked.” I say the first thing that comes to mind, then screw my eyes shut in an attempt to block out the words that feel like they’re hovering in the air between us, gaining size and substance. “I’ll, uh, I’ll be right out. Just give me a minute.”

There’s a long pause.

This morning, he fingered me in his lap. Now, it feels like we’re total strangers.

I don’t know if Oliver is reacting to my coolness or deciding to pull away as well. The guy who carried me from the balcony to bed last night would burst in here and smirk as he watched me get dressed. But the girl who fell asleep on him would have left the door open. Wouldn’t be getting ready in the guest room at all.

It’s disconcerting how so much familiarity can disappear so quickly, like a popped balloon.

“Okay.” Oliver finally responds. I listen to his quiet steps walk away, then release a deep breath.

I pull the dress out of its box and step into the center of the chiffon, pulling the fabric up and over my shoulders.

The exposed back makes it impossible to wear a bra, but the designer thoughtfully included a padded front that provides enough support. I fix the dress in place, reach around for a zipper, and freeze.

I can’t zip up my dress. It’s held together by dozens of tiny buttons that I can barely reach, much less attach. I thought nothing of it at the store. I was still trying to shake off Savannah’s comment about Oliver’s rumored girlfriend, and she helped me with every gown I tried on in the dressing suite, inspecting fabric and studying details.

My body is frozen in place, my mind racing.

I have nothing else to wear. I didn’t buy a backup dress, and all I brought from LA was business attire, pajamas, and jeans.

I walk into the bathroom, my horrified expression clear as day in the mirror.

Without anything holding the back together the teal material is sagged forward, dipping so low over my cleavage it barely covers anything. There’s absolutely no way I can wear it like this, even with a jacket over it.

I suck in a fortifying breath of oxygen, knowing what—who—my only option is.

I walk back into the bedroom. The silky fabric of the dress swishes against my skin as I walk, brushing it like an erotic whisper. And reminding me I forgot to grab underwear when I grabbed my toiletries from Oliver’s room.

I step into the heels, grab my clutch with one hand, hold my dress with the other, and open the bedroom door.

Oliver is leaning against the opposite wall, waiting.

I suck in a sharp breath, my eyes trailing up from his black dress shoes to the tailored pants, stiff jacket, and ironed shirt of his tuxedo. He shaved, the line of his jaw sharp and defined. I can smell his aftershave from here, the scent woodsy and spicy.

It is unfair for him to look this good.

Since I’m focused on his throat, I see it bob as he swallows. My eyes make the rest of the journey up to his, something clenching deep in my stomach when our gazes connect.

His smile is slow, spreading across his face and lightening the harsh angles. He looks every inch the intimidating billionaire.

And…I realize with a start, he kind of looks like mine.

Because he’s staring at me like I belong to him.

“What’s wrong with your dress?”

“Uh.” I blink rapidly. “I’m, um, there are buttons.” I gesture toward the back of my dress vaguely, realizing too late why that’s a bad idea. The lace and silk slip off one shoulder, and my right breast makes an appearance.

I scramble for the strap, but Oliver is faster. In one smooth motion, he captures the fabric, pulling it back into place.

My cheeks burn as his fingers graze my bare skin, leaving a warm, tingling sensation behind.

“Sorry for flashing you.” I croak.

One corner of his mouth curves up. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

I swallow and nod.

“Turn around.”

I comply, inhaling quickly when his fingers trail down the column of my back, tracing over every bump of my spine. Despite his words earlier, Oliver doesn’t seem to be in any big rush to leave now.

Magically, the back of my dress begins to tighten. Oliver’s fingers are deft and efficient, popping the buttons into place one by one.

“I like the dress,” he says. “Even if the buttons are impractical.”

“The compliment every woman dreams of.”

“Sorry I couldn’t offer you more.” The edge to his tone makes it clear my nothing to do here comment struck a nerve.

“Don’t apologize,” I mumble.

Neither of us say anything else, until he steps back a few minutes later. “All set.”

“Thanks.”

I start down the hallway, toward the elevator that will take us downstairs. After a beat, I hear Oliver’s footsteps behind me. Feel his eyes on my back.

Mine stay straight ahead.