Real Regrets (Kensingtons Book 2)
Real Regrets: Chapter 25

Once I’m locked in the bathroom stall, I bang my head against the door. Unfortunately, these are fancy doors. Instead of plastic that absorbs sounds, they’re constructed of some ancient wood that echoes the knock.

I blow out a long breath.

I just have to get through the rest of tonight. My flight is first thing tomorrow morning. I pee and flush, then grab the handle.

A cacophony of tapping heels echoes off the marble floor, accompanied by several female voices.

“…the blonde here with him?” one of them is saying.

My hand freezes, remaining still instead of opening the latch.

“She’s pretty,” another voice says. “He’s probably just fucking her.”

“Leonardo Branson told my father that Quinn will be a Kensington by the fall.” A third voice joins the conversation, as I realize exactly who they’re talking about.

“I didn’t think Oliver would ever get married, honestly. Even when he was supposed to marry Scarlett. He’s too…serious, you know?”

“Oliver still needs heirs,” someone else adds. “Unless he wants Crew’s kids to inherit everything. I heard Scarlett is pregnant again.”

“Really? I’ll never get off the rouge waiting list, at this rate.”

Laughter echoes before the conversation changes to lipstick and mascara flakes while the group of women touch up their appearance. I lean against the door, listening to their voices bounce off the tiled walls before beginning to fade as they head back to the party.

I unlock the door and finally step out of the bathroom stall. No one else is in sight as I turn on the tap. Warm water starts to run, right as another stall door opens.

I freeze, watching in the mirror as Scarlett Kensington approaches the sink next to mine. She pulls a tube of lipstick out of her clutch, coating her lips in a fresh coat of red.

“People will say whatever shit they want about you,” she says, capping it. “To you. Doesn’t mean you should believe a word of it.”

I don’t miss the double meaning. I’ve said some shit.

Nerves ricochet around my stomach. My memory of exactly what I said to her in another fancy restroom isn’t crystal clear. I was tipsy, and it was a couple of years ago. But I remember enough to know the flood of shame is warranted. And while I’ve wished for the opportunity to apologize, now that it’s here I’m not sure exactly what to say. Scarlett is intimidating.

“So Oliver isn’t supposed to marry Quinn Branson?”

“He was.” Her diamond engagement ring glitters as she looks through her clutch for something. The purse is dyed to match the fabric of her dress exactly, just like mine. “He won’t, though.”

“Why?”

She turns toward me, her expression amused. “Kensingtons don’t ask stupid questions, Hannah.”

There’s a fresh flood of anxiety as Scarlett stares at me. Her dark hair is piled on top of her head, a few ringlets cascading down in perfect spirals. She’s stunning, the woman who captures attention anywhere she goes.

And she knows, I realize. Either Oliver told her or she found out some other way.

I swallow. “My last name is Garner.”

“I remember. Hard to forget the last conversation we had.”

I hold her gaze. “I didn’t know who Oliver was when we met. Honestly, I hoped I’d never see you or Crew again.”

Her lips quirk. Almost a smile. “I believe you about that. But I didn’t think you were the type of woman to get married without asking for a guy’s last name.”

“I figured that was exactly the type of woman you thought I was, actually.”

A ghost of a smile flitters across Scarlett’s face. “I like your dress.”

My hand wavers before shutting off the faucet, stunned by the compliment. “Th-thank you. Savannah picked it out. She works for you, at Haute.”

She glances over. “There’s a button open on the back. Bothered me through the whole ceremony. May I?”

“Um, sure.”

Seconds later, there’s a tug on the fabric. “All set.”

“Thanks. I didn’t think the back through.”

“Fashion isn’t meant to be convenient.”

I don’t think she’s talking about fashion, though.

Scarlett heads for the door, her heels tapping out a quick pace.

“Scarlett.”

It takes a few steps, but she pauses and glances back.

I pull in a deep breath, nerves making my palms sweat. I’ll have to wash my hands again. “I’m really sorry. What I said to you—what I remember of it—is unforgiveable. I had a…different impression of what your marriage was like, but that’s no excuse. If I could go back and keep my mouth shut, I would. And I’m happy for you and Crew. It’s nice to know real love exists, for those of us who haven’t found it yet.”

Scarlett stares at me, unblinking. The drip drip drip of the leaky faucet is the only sound, for what feels like an eternity.

“Everyone makes mistakes. And if you haven’t found love yet, you aren’t looking very hard, Hannah.”

She leaves in a swirl of red fabric and expensive perfume.

When I walk back into the reception a few minutes later, I replace Oliver across the room immediately. He’s shaking hands with a group of men, appearing to be saying goodbyes.

I feel my forehead wrinkle with confusion.

“Hi, Hannah.”

I turn, hiding my surprise. I was expecting Crew and Scarlett to avoid me tonight. Ignore me.

“Hi, Crew.”

“How’ve you been?” He tilts his head, studying me with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty.

“Good.”

“So…you and Oliver.”

I nod, not sure what to say.

“You didn’t mention it, in Los Angeles.”

“At the time, I didn’t think there was anything to say.”

“And now?”

I shrug, reverting to nonverbal responses. I know Oliver’s relationship with his brother is complicated. And I hate that I’m probably adding to it. Whatever Oliver wants to share—or not share—about us with Crew should be his call.

“You seem different,” he tells me, tilting his head. “More…settled.”

“You’re the one with a wife and a kid.”

He nods, a crease appearing in his cheek. “Soon to be two.”

A rumor I’ve heard twice now but wasn’t confirmed. “Wow. Congrats.”

His blue eyes are back on me. Searching. “Oliver didn’t mention it?”

I shake my head. “We don’t… It’s a little awkward, obviously. And Oliver and I aren’t that serious.”

Crew laughs, surprising me. “Bullshit, Hannah.”

My lips thin. “Happy endings don’t fall in everyone’s lap, Crew.”

“You think I don’t know that? But I know Oliver. I know you well enough to tell you care about Oliver in a way you were never invested in me. And Oliver hasn’t checked his email once since you guys arrived, which is about twenty times less than I normally see him on his phone. This was the first week in five years that Oliver wasn’t the last one to leave the office. You’re good for him, Hannah. He needs something to care about, besides the damn company.” He glances away to where Oliver is still standing across the room. “What I’m trying to say is, don’t let anything that happened between us affect you guys.”

“You think pretty highly of yourself, huh?”

Crew raises one eyebrow. “You’re the one who told my wife I think about you when I fuck her.”

I wince and look away. Couples have started dancing, now that dinner has ended and the cake was cut. “I was drunk.”

He smiles, then shrugs. “We all have moments in the past we wish we could change. Me. Oliver. Don’t let them talk you out of taking risks.”

“What are you, a therapist?”

He laughs, then glances past me. “Hi, big brother.”

Oliver’s eyes are on me, not Crew. Checking on my reaction.

I offer him a smile, more at ease than I’ve felt since we arrived. It feels like a boulder has been lifted off my chest now that I’ve apologized to Scarlett. Maybe some mistakes are resolvable. Some regrets reversible.

“I should go replace Scarlett,” Crew says. “She hates attending these events sober. Nice talking to you, Hannah.”

“You too,” I say, before he disappears.

“You okay?” Oliver asks as soon as Crew is gone.

“Yeah. We were just…catching up.”

He nods, then sighs. “The company I talked to this morning wants to do another call. Now.”

“On a Saturday night?”

“It’s Sunday morning, for them.”

“Doesn’t sound much better.”

He half-smiles. “No. It doesn’t.”

“So, you have to leave?”

Oliver’s gaze is searching as he stares at me. I have no idea what he’s looking for. “Do you want to stay?”

“Alone? No, thanks. Camden Crane might show up again.”

“You handled him fine.”

“Not the first time a guy has approached me at a bar.”

“Yeah. I know.” He holds my gaze, and there’s a tangible pulse between us.

Somehow, I know he’s recalling when we stood together at the bar in LA. When he insisted he wasn’t jealous. “Well, if we’re leaving I should—”

“Do you want to dance?”

Crew’s words echo in my mind. He needs something to care about, besides the damn company.

“What about the call?”

“It can wait until Monday.”

“Okay.” I nod, the movement jerky. People are staring at us—staring at him—and I’m uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

Oliver leads me out onto the dance floor. The music is slow and sweeping, a waltz that evokes floating on water or spinning in circles.

“You look stunning, Hannah.” His words rise inside me like a growing tide, spreading heat across my skin.

“Thank you,” I manage to say.

Oliver’s smile grows as our gazes connect; his attention totally focused on me. His attention is overwhelming, but I can’t manage to look away. I wonder how I’ll live without it. If the simple act of someone looking at me will ever feel this way again.

“The woman you went out with was Quinn Branson?” I can’t keep the question contained. It spills out of me like an overflowing fountain.

Twin wrinkles appear between Oliver’s eyes as my question registers. “Yes.”

“And you were supposed to marry her?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“Does it matter?”

Oliver’s hand tightens around mine. A muscle leaps in his jaw. “My father suggested it.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“I’m already married.”

His voice is low, and I match it. “We’re getting divorced.”

“Won’t change anything.”

“It could.” I’m not sure why I’m pushing it. After Oliver and I part ways, what he does with his life is none of my business. It’s none of my business now, honestly.

“Did Crew say something to you?”

“No. Some women were talking about it in the bathroom. And Savannah mentioned the photos of you two.”

“Is that why you’ve been acting this way since you got back?”

“No,” I lie.

“Hannah, I—”

Whatever else Oliver was going to say is lost in a sudden flurry of activity, as a group of guys appear and surround us.

“Here you are!” The same man who approached Oliver when we first arrived slings an arm around his neck. “Come on, Garrett wants to do a group photo.” He glances at me. “We’ll have him right back.”

I nod as they pull Oliver away, caught somewhere between relief and frustration about the interruption, before I head toward the bar, so I’m not left standing alone out here.

Oliver and I are both silent as the limo pulls away from the curb, headed uptown.

It’s late, and I’m exhausted. I’m also very aware of how few hours remain of my time in New York. Oliver and I haven’t had a chance to talk alone since our dance was interrupted. The rest of the night was spent conversing with what’s become a blur of names and faces in my mind. For someone who claims to hate attending parties and socializing, he’s awfully good at both.

I kick off my heels, stretching the arches of my feet. Oliver’s head tilts in my direction, tracking the movement. I’m tipsy, and I think he’s buzzed too. Every time I saw him standing in the center of a group of men who were hanging on to his every word, he had a glass in hand.

The limo rolls through the city streets slowly, the lanes crowded even at this late hour.

“I haven’t been in a limo since senior prom.”

When I glance over at Oliver, he’s looking at me. “Who’d you go with?”

“A group of friends.”

One eyebrow rises. “No guys asked you?”

“They did. I just didn’t want to go with any of them.”

“I should probably replace those high standards flattering.”

“Who’d you go to prom with?”

“I didn’t go,” he replies.

“Did a girl turn you down?”

He scoffs. “No. I didn’t see the point in going.”

If I ever meet Arthur Kensington, I would hand him a parenting book. He did a number on Oliver. On both his sons.

“The point is fun, Oliver.”

“It only would have been fun if we’d gone to high school together.”

I tuck my feet under the silk of my dress and roll my head toward him. These leather seats feel like sitting on a cloud. “You would have asked me?”

“Of course.” He says it like there’s no other possible answer, and for some reason I believe him.

Warmth unfurls in the center of my chest, flooding me with an intense affection I’m scared to name.

I don’t drop his gaze, feeling around for the buckle of my seatbelt. The quiet snap of the belt releasing sounds loud, in the silence between us.

Shadows pass across his face as I crawl into his lap, the flashing lights of the cars and buildings we pass disappearing as quickly as they appear. Then the car stops, either at a red light or stuck in heavier traffic, and I can see Oliver’s expression perfectly.

He’s staring at me like he never wants to look at anything else.

All night, I saw him schmooze. Watched him be charming and intimidating and serious, all at once.

I knew it was a mask. I’ve seen past the polished tycoon act he portrayed all night. And it feels like even more of a privilege, after witnessing him in his world tonight. Knowing none of those people get to see his real smile or hear his real laugh or experience the potent sensation of his undivided attention.

His hands slip beneath the fabric of my dress that’s fanning out around us, settling on my calves.

The car begins moving again. I shift on his lap, not prepared for the motion, and his grip on my legs tightens.

“Hannah…”

I rest my forehead against his, inhaling his scent. “Can you be quiet?” I whisper.

“Can you?”

I kiss him. It’s messy and urgent and heady, sending pulses of arousal through my entire body. Oliver called himself boring, but I’m more daring around him than I’ve ever been with anyone else.

There’s no hesitation as I shift away so I can pull his pants down to his thighs. I’m convinced there’s no sexier sight in the world than Oliver Kensington in a tuxedo with ruffled hair and blazing eyes, his rigid erection proudly on display.

His hands slide up my legs, using the leverage to pull me against his body. They move higher and higher, until they rest on my hips.

“You’re not wearing underwear?” The question comes out half-choked.

My face flames. “My suitcase was in your room, and I forgot to…oh.”

I completely forget whatever I was saying, when his hard length rubs against my bare, wet center. Need pools low in my belly as our pelvises grind together, simulating sex. I slide back and forth along his shaft, and Oliver grunts a “Fuck,” his fingers digging into my skin in response to the tantalizing friction.

I reach between our bodies, tracing the throbbing vein that runs the length of his cock before I fist him just beneath the flared head and guide him to my entrance.

He doesn’t push in right away, and I don’t sink down. We’re suspended in a moment of anticipation, and we both know why.

This will be the last time we do this.

There’s going to be a last time.

Oliver’s jaw clenches. And then he pulls me down, forcing me to take him in one swift shove. I gasp, the sound too loud in the silent car, as I adjust to the sudden stretch.

I might have started this, but Oliver is in complete control now. His hands squeeze my hips as he lifts me and then pulls me back down again, filling me over and over again. Heat spreads through my entire body as my breathing picks up, the scent of his cologne mixing with the smell of sweat and sex.

I’m disoriented when he suddenly stops thrusting, glancing out the window and half-expecting to replace we’re already at his building. But the car is still rolling along an unfamiliar street.

Oliver lifts me off his lap like I weigh nothing, setting me down on the seat next to him. I blink at him, then open my mouth. “What—”

He silences me with a searing kiss.

I’m falling onto my back, lying on the soft cushions of the car. The seat is long, but not lengthy enough to accommodate Oliver’s six-foot-something frame. He has one foot on the floor of the car as he leans over me. I inhale quickly when his mouth moves along my neck, then traces a path down my chest with his tongue.

“It’s never enough,” he says, sounding angry about it.

And I know exactly what he means. Calling this pull between us attraction seems too tame. It’s an enchantment. An addiction. A compulsion.

He pushes into me more slowly this time, a slow drag that electrifies every nerve ending. I moan, loudly, no longer caring that the driver might hear. Need eradicates any inhibitions. I’ll scream his name for the whole damn city.

My fingers weave into the thick strands of his hair, mussing it even more as Oliver rocks his hips into mine. His lips replace mine again, a deep, erotic possession that sneaks down my spine in rivulets of heat. The friction is indescribable, pleasure bubbling inside of me like a shaken bottle of champagne ready to explode. The thick invasion of his cock and the grind against my clit is all it takes for release to pulse through me. Oliver continues thrusting, and it goes on and on in endless, blissful waves.

I feel him swell, followed by the unfamiliar spill of heat as he comes inside of me.

Oliver doesn’t move off me right away. When he does, it feels like a loss. He doesn’t make any attempt to fix his hair or bowtie, just pulls up his pants and refastens his belt. I straighten my dress, pressing my thighs together beneath the fabric.

The car comes to a stop outside his building.

“You were wrong.”

I look over, but Oliver is staring out the window. “About what?”

“Marrying you being on my list of regrets.”

He opens his door and steps outside.