Real Regrets (Kensingtons Book 2)

“What do you think, Hannah?” Tyler asks.

I glance away from the white lines and numbers painted on the grass. “Sounds great,” I reply, with no idea what I’m agreeing to.

I’ve taken this whole tour on autopilot, letting Tyler ask questions and drive the conversation. I’ve regretted coming at all, knowing it was to please my father and some attempt to prove I changed from the last time I was here. And mostly, because of Oliver. Avoiding a difficult conversation with my dad about architecture school and being anywhere near my husband are terrible reasons to be here, though. It will only blindside my dad more, and after my disastrous call with Oliver, I shouldn’t even be chancing running into him on the street.

Tyler is all business as we return to the side entrance of the stadium. “Thanks for meeting with us, David.”

“Of course. It was a pleasure.”

Tyler shakes hands with David Prescott, the general manager of the New York Eagles. So do I. David is more professional than Robert Damon, offering me a polite nod and nothing else.

Finally, we’re leaving. The fake smile I’ve worn all day drops as soon as we’re inside the car. I kick off my heels and reach down to rub my feet as the car rolls through the massive, empty parking lot. The stadium was built to accommodate seventy-thousand people and is surrounded by asphalt. It takes the driver twenty minutes to get on the highway and head back toward Manhattan.

“Want to grab dinner?” Tyler asks me, shutting his laptop and stowing it away as the skyline of skyscrapers comes into view.

I chew on the inside of my cheek. I can’t tell if it’s a coworker request or if it could be construed as a date. And either way, I’m too drained and distracted for dinner to sound appealing. I’d rather order takeout and lounge around in my pajamas. But I don’t want to offend Tyler, either.

“I’m not feeling great. I think I’m just going to turn in early.”

He nods, thankfully not looking upset. “It’s been a long day. Do you want me to pick you up some food?”

“No, thanks. I’ll order something.”

Tyler nods, then focuses on his phone for the rest of the drive. I stare out at the familiar sights of New York City.

The landscape is familiar, but it also looks different.

It’s not just a city. It’s Oliver’s city.

This is where he works. Lives. Dates. And while that shouldn’t make any difference to me, it’s a thought I can’t shake as we sit in traffic.

I don’t know exactly where Kensington Consolidated has its offices—no doubt some prime, downtown location—but I imagine Oliver making a similar drive to this one when he heads to and from work each day, past soaring skyscrapers and food trucks and yellow cabs.

Tyler and I split up once we arrive back at the lobby of the Carlyle. He goes up to the hotel’s front desk to request a car for later. I head toward the elevators, eager to get up to my room.

Even though we already said our goodbyes, Tyler waves before the doors close. He seems genuinely unbothered by me not wanting to spend extra time with him, and it’s a relief.

I’ll get through the next couple of days of meetings, and then I’ll be back in LA. Maybe I’ll host both of my parents for dinner this weekend, and I can tell them about architecture school then. It’s not like it will be a massive surprise—I hope. They know it’s an interest of mine, or was.

And then I remember how ecstatic my dad was on my first day as an official employee, and my stomach twists into an uncomfortable knot.

As soon as I’m inside my room, I strip out of the dress and blazer I’ve been wearing all day. We only stopped here for a few minutes between the airport and leaving for the first meeting, and it’s a relief to finally be free of the constricting clothes. It feels even more amazing to step under a stream of warm water. New York is at least fifteen degrees cooler than LA was this morning, which I was expecting but didn’t really dress for.

My phone rings right as I step out of the shower. Most likely my father, calling to check in.

I rush into the bedroom with dripping hair and a haphazardly wrapped towel, sending droplets of water flying everywhere. My phone is charging on the bedside table. I stub my toe as I skid to a stop, swearing as the stab of pain makes my knee buckle. I hop one-legged, checking my foot for permanent damage, as I answer the phone.

“Hello?” I answer, breathless.

“Hannah?” Icy heat works its way down my spine as I experience a flood of dread and excitement. My toe no longer throbs. I say nothing, cursing myself for not checking who was calling before I answered.

I didn’t think he’d call me again. Didn’t think I’d be in this situation.

“Hannah?” Oliver repeats.

I clear my throat and grip the towel tighter. “Hi, Oliver.”

“Is this an okay time?” he asks hesitantly.

I’m panting like I’ve run a marathon. And the last time we spoke, I hung up on him. So I understand his apprehension. “Yes.”

An opportunity to end this conversation before it’s begun, and that’s all I say: Yes. The surprise and panic are ebbing away, replaced by more pleasant sensations. Like…happiness. Relief.

He called, and I didn’t think he would. Thought calling me back after I hung up was the end of our communication.

“The petition was filed today.”

“I know.”

The reminder dampens my mood a little, but not by much. Because that’s not something he needed to call me about.

My attorney texted me this morning. The message from her delivered as soon as I landed in New York, which wasn’t the best start to this trip. I was expecting it. It was a bit of a mystery why he hadn’t filed already.

Even though it’s silent on his end, I can practically hear his thoughts turning, wondering what to say next.

“Did you tell your dad about school?” he asks.

Rivulets of water continue to stream down my arms and legs, leaving tiny puddles on the floor. “We don’t need to do this,” I whisper.

“Do what?”

“I’m sorry I called you on Friday, okay? I shouldn’t have. It was…unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional? What are we working on together, Hannah?”

“Our divorce.”

Oliver snorts.

I glance at the clock, the longer hand ticking the minutes away. “I don’t want to argue. It’s been a long day. My attorney is keeping me updated, so you don’t need to. This will be over…soon.”

That last sentence is harder to say than I thought. Not because I’m suddenly enamored by the institution of marriage or think marrying a stranger in Vegas is a recommended experience. But I associate both with Oliver now, and he’s the component I’ve formed some attachment to. I’ve never put on an act with him, the way I do with most people. Especially men. I wanted to tell him about my acceptance before Rosie, who I’ve known for over a decade.

It feels like a loss to let that go. But I have to. He filed. He was possibly out on a date. There’s nothing to hold on to.

Oliver says nothing. The silence is ominous and uncomfortable, stretching a shorter distance than he knows. I wonder if he’s still at work or whether he’s at home. Work, I’m guessing.

I tighten my towel like armor. “Well, I should go order dinner, so…”

“Dinner? It’s only three thirty there.”

A phone begins ringing in the background.

He’s at the office. But he doesn’t ask me to wait. Doesn’t even acknowledge the sound as it continues blaring four more times before falling silent. He just waits for me to respond.

So I rule out lying, saying I skipped lunch and am eating early. And it’s not just because I somehow sense he’ll know it’s a fib. It’s because it was a secret hope of this trip, seeing him. “I, uh, I’m in New York,” I admit.

“You’re in New York.” Oliver’s voice is flat, and I wish I could see his face. Based on his tone alone, I have no clue what he’s thinking. It’s not indifference; it’s controlled. The way I imagine him lording over deals worth hundreds of millions of dollars. He exposes what he wants to be seen, nothing more, nothing less.

“It’s a work trip.”

Silence.

“An agent I’ve worked with before asked me to come with him, so I…did.” I clear my throat. “Anyway, um—”

“Were you going to tell me?”

Honesty kicks in again. “Maybe. When I called Friday, I was… Maybe.”

More silence. Awkwardness expands in my chest, heavy and uncomfortable, as I try to figure out how to navigate out of this mess.

“I shouldn’t have gone out with her,” he says, quietly.

My chest contracts in response to the confirmation but my voice manages to remain casual. “You don’t have to explain—”

“I wanted a distraction, and it didn’t work.” Oliver exhales. “There’s not going to be a second date. I didn’t—I haven’t been dating.”

I’m not sure how to respond. He doesn’t need my permission, and he doesn’t owe me any explanation.

“Are you free for dinner?”

The offer is unexpected. So unexpected, I’m too shocked to speak. Barely able to think. “You don’t have to…”

“I know I don’t have to, Hannah. It was a yes or no question.”

I want to say yes, which probably means I should say no.

“I’m free.”

I really wish I could see his face now. There’s no response right away. Then, “I’ll pick you up at seven?”

Less than half an hour to get ready. That shouldn’t matter. I shouldn’t care about my appearance. But I’m already plotting in my head. Running through the clothes I brought.

“Sure.” I strive for a casual tone. “I’m staying at the Carlyle. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

“Okay. See you soon.”

“See you soon,” I repeat.

I hang up, drop my phone on the bed, and then turn into a flurry of activity. I upend my entire suitcase on the mattress, sorting through blouses and blazers and sleep sets. I packed one pair of jeans, and I’m tempted to wear them. But I have no idea what Oliver has in mind for dinner. Based on what he wore for dinner with my family, I should dress up. I pull on the navy dress I was planning to wear tomorrow and then rush into the bathroom. I blow dry my hair while also attempting to apply mascara, glancing anxiously at the clock the whole time.

At least the tight timeframe means I have less time to worry about what dinner will be like. I highly doubt Oliver is inviting me out to discuss divorce proceedings.

There’s nothing to discuss. Everything is being handled by the court process and our attorneys.

This is…something different. And that’s scary. Because I knew there was attraction between us, but I thought that’s all that was there, besides our legal bindings. Oliver didn’t need to ask me to dinner. He’s a billionaire, he’s attractive, and he can be charming when he wants to be. He’s amazing in bed.

He has options. I’m not a last resort.

And he’s not mine, either. I could have gone out with Tyler. Or with other acquaintances from past trips to the city.

This is intentional.

Real.

I step into the lobby with only one minute to spare, hoping Oliver is running late. But he’s facing the wall just to the left of the elevators, studying the abstract piece of art hanging on the wall.

He’s in a suit, one that’s barely wrinkled even though I’m assuming it’s the one he’s been wearing all day. His hands are shoved in his pockets and his hair is slightly ruffled, like he ran a hand through it recently.

There’s an unwelcome flip in my stomach as soon as I see him. A collision of nerves and eagerness, witnessing Oliver waiting for me. Everyone—the hotel staff and the other guests walking in and out of the building—are glancing at him. I’m not sure if it’s because they recognize him or because he has that aura of power and importance.

My heels announce my approach, tapping against the buffed marble of the lobby floor.

Oliver glances my way, ignoring the other attention aimed in his direction. He smiles when he sees me, and the genuine reaction wreaks havoc on my heart.

There’s nothing cursory or forced in his expression. It almost looks like he relaxes as I approach. Like he was worried I wouldn’t show or wouldn’t be smiling back. And there’s a twinge in my chest, realizing he wouldn’t be looking at me at all if my dad hadn’t sent me to Las Vegas. If I hadn’t gone down to that hotel bar exactly when I did. It makes me wonder whether destiny or fate actually exist, and if they can supersede consequences. How believing in something larger than yourself can make you feel bigger, instead of smaller.

“Hi.” His eyes flick down, over the trench coat I’m wearing, my bare legs, and heels.

I’ll be cold and the balls of my feet already ache. But I want to look good for him.

“Hi,” I echo, unsure how else to greet him. Most of the familiarity from his trip to LA has vanished, so hugging or kissing him feels far too forward.

Oliver holds out a hand. And in the simplest of gestures, I take it. Our fingers weave together naturally, like a tapestry that’s meant to be.

“Ready?” he asks.

I nod, following him across the lobby. Oliver drops my hand when we reach the revolving door, but only to guide me inside one of the glass sections. Rather than take his own, he crowds in behind me. For a few seconds, we’re cordoned in our own tiny world, his smell and presence overwhelming. And then we’re spit out on the street, the city coming alive despite the dipping sun signaling the end of a day.

He takes my hand again once we’re on the street, and I hate how much that small act matters to me. Especially since it’s a logical move, considering how crowded the streets are. There’s an energy to New York that simply doesn’t exist in other cities. A constant pulse that fills the city like a live presence.

Oliver says nothing about me not telling him I was here. About our last conversation, our marriage, or our divorce.

We walk down the street together, holding hands, looking like a normal, uncomplicated couple to any outside observer.

“You up for taking the Metro?” he asks me after we’ve walked a block.

I nod, despite the fact I’ve never ridden New York’s subway system before and have never had any interest in doing so.

After another block, we descend stairs into a brightly lit, bustling station. The breezy night air turns stagnant and stale. Oliver buys a card at one of the kiosks, laughs at me when I try to pay for it, and then demonstrates how to swipe through the turnstile in order to reach the tracks.

Every move is practiced and efficient, displaying the calm confidence I’m used to witnessing from Oliver. He wasn’t lying about taking public transit before, obviously. Oliver navigates the crowds and commotion with ease, waiting for one train to pass and then guiding me into the next one once the doors open.

The car we step into is already packed with people. All the plastic seats are taken, the nearest one by an elderly woman holding a paper bag filled with groceries.

I move quickly through the mass of bored and urgent faces, grabbing onto the nearest metal pole as soon as I reach it. Still, I’m unprepared for the sudden lurch once the doors close. I stumble back a step as the subway starts to move, colliding with a warm, muscular body. Expensive cologne replaces the scent of mustiness and sweat.

Oliver’s arm snakes around my waist to steady me, absorbing every stagger and stumble as the train races along the underground tracks. I wobble when the brakes unexpectedly engage, leaning more solidly against Oliver as the doors open at the next stop.

His chuckle is low and amused as bodies shift around us, so close it sends a shiver down my spine. “You should have worn your flip-flops.”

My face flames. I don’t like that he’s seen me so relaxed. That he knows me well enough to say that. It’s a reminder of how much else he knows. How much else he’s seen. “They didn’t go with my dress.”

“Then you should have worn jeans.”

“I figured you’d be wearing a suit.”

I tug at the sleeve of his jacket to prove a point, but since his hand is splayed across my stomach, I end up brushing his skin with more of a caress than an emphasis. A breath catches in my throat when his hold on me tightens.

“And I was right,” I add.

The doors shut and we begin moving again.

“It’s a busy week at work,” he says.

I’m certain a busy week at work is a normal week for Oliver, but I don’t say that. How many hours he spends at the office is none of my business. And if he really does have even more than usual going on, I can’t believe he’s taking the time to bring me wherever we’re going.

After two more stops, Oliver drops his hand. My abdomen feels bereft without the weight and warmth of it. “This is us.”

I follow two teenage girls off the subway. They’re giggling, glancing over one shoulder every few steps. They’re looking at Oliver, I realize, as we reach the stairs. I hope I was more subtle checking guys out when I was their age, but probably not.

I’m so focused on the high schoolers that I stumble again, this time with no excuse but my own clumsiness.

Once again, Oliver is there to steady me.

Don’t get used to it, I tell myself.

I thought I craved independence too much. That my failure to follow through on a committed relationship was tied to me, not something missing. But something was: trust. Not the logical, quantifiable type that can be defined by reliability stacking up over time. The raw, instinctual kind, that is simply there, or it isn’t. The catch after a fall.

“Maybe you should go barefoot,” Oliver suggests.

I glance at the cement steps, stained with spilled drinks and dirt and who knows what else. “No thanks.”

He lets go of my arm. But his fingers weave with mine, intertwining until there’s no mistaking we’re holding hands.

“You’re stubborn.”

“You’re the billionaire with no car.”

Oliver huffs a laugh, faintly amused. “Is that what you look for in a guy? A fancy car to take you out in?”

There’s a lot lurking beneath the question. Enough for me to hear he took my words as a judgment. As a shortcoming.

I was just trying to distract myself from how it feels to have his hand gripping mine.

I react to the simmering ire, something dark and ugly and unexpected twisting in my stomach. “I haven’t been dating. I’m married, remember?”

Oliver says nothing as we reach the top of the stairs, and I wish I’d kept my mouth shut.

The crowds are thinner in this section of the city, more people leaving than arriving.

We walk past a long, warehouse-looking building, under a pedestrian bridge, and cross a street. Flat, dark water stretches ahead, a walking path running alongside it. And then Oliver pulls me left, and I see it.

“Whoa.” I stumble again on a crack in the sidewalk, more focused on looking ahead than what’s right in front of me. For a third time, Oliver steadies me.

When I look over, his grin is bright and wide. He looks thrilled by my reaction. “Cool, right?”

I nod, my gaze returning to the structure we’re walking toward. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. A floating island, constructed from dozens of massive, attached funnels that are pressed together to form a park hovering above the surface of the Hudson. Boardwalks lead from solid land to the raised topiaries, filled with the flow of foot traffic.

“How long has this been here?”

“About a year,” Oliver answers. “There was a company event here, right after it opened. Better venue than most of our parties. And I thought you might like it, from an architectural perspective.”

My throat tightens. No one in my life, the few who know I have any interest in architecture and the many who don’t, has ever made the effort to engage in it with me. To bring me somewhere simply for me to marvel over its construction. Due to my own secrecy and insecurity, I know. But still, the fact Oliver chose to do so means more than words can express.

“You thought right.”

We continue walking along the wooden board until we reach the edge of the park. Oliver says nothing, just lets me take everything in. He doesn’t drop my hand either. We stroll along the paved paths in silence, passing chattering tourists and brown plants waiting for warmer weather to blossom with new growth.

The funnels aren’t all the same height, so we have to walk up and down flights of stairs in order to explore the whole space. My toes pinch inside my heels, but I’m more focused on the scenery around us. Not just the park itself, but the Hudson River and the towering buildings lining both sides of its shores. Dusk has fallen, creeping toward night. Lights flicker on everywhere, bringing the city to life even as the day draws to a close.

There’s an observation deck at the top of the tallest funnel, overlooking all the winding paths we just walked. Oliver leans against the railing, looking up instead of at any of our immediate surroundings. The final strokes of sunset are fading, dimming like a dying bulb.

“I always thought it would be cool to be an astronaut,” he says, studying the sky.

“You’re not claustrophobic?” I tilt my head back too, so I’m witnessing the same sight.

He laughs. “Something about space…it’s mysterious. Dangerous. Massive. What you do doesn’t seem as important. I bet it all looks really tiny down here.”

“I can’t picture you as an astronaut. They don’t wear suits.” I tug on his jacket with my free hand. “Not this kind, at least.”

Oliver smiles. “My dad couldn’t either. He shot that idea down fast. But my mom took me to the Space Center in Houston.”

“That sounds nice.” I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the flood of questions that want to spill out. Oliver doesn’t talk about his mother, I’ve noticed.

“It was. But it was also kind of pointless. She and I both knew I’d go to business school and then end up at Kensington Consolidated.”

I nod, still looking at the sky. “In college, I majored in architecture along with business. Another three years of school to get my master’s didn’t sound very appealing when I was graduating. It was easier to start working for my dad, so that’s what I did. And I’ve thought about going back on and off over the years, but it was always easier just to stay put.”

“I’m glad you applied. Not surprised you got in.”

I smile, absorbing his faith. It feels good. Rare. “I haven’t told my dad yet. Just you…and my best friend, Rosie.”

“Did she tell you to go?”

“In a way. She mostly wanted to talk about you.”

“You told her about us?”

“I told her we got married. Not…anything else.”

He says nothing.

“She won’t tell anyone.”

I think that’s what he’s worried about, until he asks, “Why didn’t you tell her anything else?”

The easy—understandable—answer would be that I didn’t want to explain why I was spending time with my soon-to-be-ex-husband. I don’t have an explanation. “I didn’t want to.”

“Did you tell her about Crew?”

I nod.

Oliver looks away, the dimming light illuminating his strong profile. And I realize he misunderstood.

I step closer, savoring his body heat. Any warmth from the sun is rapidly fading. “That’s not what I—”

“We should get to dinner.”

Oliver starts walking toward the exit. After a brief pause, I follow.

I should be relieved he didn’t give me a chance to explain. To bare myself more than I already have. To admit he means something to me.

But I’m not.