Real Regrets (Kensingtons Book 2)

I shut my laptop and lean back. Rosie arranged for us to get manicures while I was visiting her in Chicago. My pink-tipped fingers run across the smooth surface of the laptop, the shiny silver a sharp contrast to the dark wood of the hotel desk and the rose nail polish.

An exhale leaves me in a disbelieving huff.

Honestly, I never thought I would do it.

For months—years—I’ve been telling myself I would.

But it’s not until this exact second, when I did, that I realize I truly believed I wouldn’t.

That realization chips away at some of the excitement and anxiety. I feel hollow, knowing I’ve sent this dream out into the world and it will probably get rejected.

I had the possibility; the I could do this.

Now, it’ll be I can do this. Or more likely, I can’t do this.

I blame Vegas for this impulsive decision. After returning from my meeting with Robert Damon, I felt restless. I was more optimistic with Rachel on the phone than my true mood was.

Being at my father’s beck and call wouldn’t bother me as much, if this was the job I really wanted. But there’s nothing worse than working toward something you’re indifferent to. And maybe I’ll feel differently, after knowing whether or not this alternate path is a possibility. At least I’ll have tried, and that’s more than I’ve been able to say before.

My plan for the evening was to lounge around my hotel room, order room service, and possibly break into the overpriced minibar. But there’s a new thrill humming beneath my skin. The energy of new possibilities, which my life has been lacking lately.

Architecture school has been an abstract dream of mine since undergrad. For months, I’ve had the forms filled out and ready, but I’ve never clicked Submit. Until tonight. And the woman who finally took that step wouldn’t be spending a night in Vegas lounging in her hotel room.

I stand and stretch, glancing down at my phone next to my laptop. I have this giddy urge to tell someone what I just did.

But there’s no one to call—not really. Rachel would be supportive but shocked. She, like everyone else in my life, thinks architecture was a passing phase in college. That I studied it because I always knew I’d have a place waiting for me at Garner Sports Agency no matter what I majored in. I know Rosie is going to a play with her boyfriend Jude tonight. I don’t want to put my mom in the position of keeping this from my dad, and I don’t want him to know yet. Maybe ever.

Beyond those three people, I come up blank.

I have lots of friends.

They just aren’t the ones you call with life-altering news.

I abandon my phone and sort through the contents of my suitcase, deciding I’ll at least go down to the hotel bar for a drink. Celebrate myself. If this is as far as this possibility ever goes, I’ll know I did something.

None of what I packed is what I would have chosen to bring to Vegas, because I didn’t know I was coming to Vegas.

Rosie warned me Chicago would be cold, and she was downplaying it, honestly. A bulky sweater and jeans were great for walking around Millennium Park. Not so great for a fancy hotel.

I end up slipping into the one dress I brought—a navy, sheath style that clings to my curves but isn’t impossible to breathe in. After accessorizing the outfit with heels and a swipe of lipstick I grab my phone and room key, then take an elevator downstairs.

My heels tap against the marble floor of the lobby as I walk toward the bar. It’s located toward the front of the hotel, overlooking the fountains spraying toward the sidewalk.

I slide onto one of the many empty stools, setting my clutch on the marble counter. A waterfall is sandwiched between two panes of glass behind the alcohol that’s lined up in neat rows, the constant flow casting shifting shadows on the bottles.

I order a gin martini from the bartender. She’s brunette and beautiful, probably about my age. Maybe a few years younger. Her eyeliner swoops up in the corners in the style I’ve never been able to manage, and I’m tempted to ask her for makeup tips when she delivers my drink.

My phone begins ringing before I can say anything except “Thank you.”

I answer the call, stirring my drink with the olive.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m just checking in. Did everything go okay with Robert Damon?”

I stamp out the sigh that wants to slip out. “It went well. He was very welcoming.”

My father chuckles. “I figured he would be. Thanks again for changing your plans, sweetheart.”

I exhale, my annoyance receding. “Of course.”

This is why I’m still working at Garner Sports Agency despite my ambivalence toward the job.

I like hearing pride in my dad’s voice. His approval is why I practiced penalty kicks after dinner every night on the goal he assembled himself. I’m twenty-seven. Not seventeen and chasing a state championship. But the same principle of pride remains. The worst part is, I know my dad would tell me to pursue a different career if he had any clue I wanted to. Just like he told me to quit soccer whenever I stopped enjoying it.

“I stopped by your house on my way home from the office today. The front yard looks good.”

“Yeah, I hired a new company. They mulched all the flower beds on Tuesday.”

“We’re supposed to get a lot of rain this week. Make sure they’re planning to mow soon.”

I run a finger around the rim of the fluted glass. “Okay, I’ll mention it.”

“You had a package outside. I put it in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I suck down a sip of martini, grimacing as the uncut alcohol sears my throat.

“You’ll be here tomorrow, right? For April’s baby shower? Your mother told you?”

I down the remnants of my drink and gesture for another from the bartender. “She not only told me, she reminded me about twenty times. My flight leaves tomorrow morning. I’ll be there.”

He chuckles. “Okay, good. We’ll see you then. I love you, Hannah.”

A fresh drink is set in front of me. I mouth a Thanks to the bartender. “Love you too, Dad. Good night.”

I hang up, dropping my phone onto the bar top and massaging my left temple. I roll the stem of the glass between my fingers and stare at the clear liquid mixed with the murkiness of the olive juice, my dad’s cheerful voice echoing in my head.

Even if I do get into the program I applied for, I have no idea how I would tell him.

My dad keeps handing me more important clients and more responsibility—like this trip—and I know it’s just a matter of time until he admits outright he wants me to take over when my mom finally talks him into retiring.

The second martini slides down as easily as the first one did. It leaves a pleasant trail of warmth behind that settles in my stomach and spreads through my veins.

“Whiskey. Neat.”

Commanding, deep voices are common in the sports industry. Cocky athletes. Confident coaches. Certain announcers.

In my experience, they’re always connected to men who think they have something especially meaningful to say. Who infuse their voice with an inflated importance that’s never merited.

But none of those voices have ever infected me with any interest. They’ve never made me believe they actually have anything notable to say.

Until this one.

All he did was order a drink, and my every sense is on high alert, waiting to hear what else he might have to say.

When there’s nothing but silence, I glance away from my empty glass toward my left, curious if the enticing baritone belongs to an equally appealing sight.

I’m not disappointed.

The formerly empty stool one down from mine is now occupied by a man watching as the bartender rushes to pour his drink. His light brown hair is ruffled, like he ran a hand through it recently. Even seated, I can tell he’s tall and muscular, wearing a suit that fits him too perfectly not to be tailored.

He pulls a phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen.

His entire profile tenses as he frowns, then he tucks the phone away as the bartender sets a glass of light brown liquid down in front of him seconds later.

He thanks her.

It’s a small detail. A common courtesy that’s actually rare.

That’s when you learn the most about someone—in the split seconds they’re not expecting to give anything away.

The bartender hovers for a few seconds, like she’s hoping he’ll say something else. All he does is sip and stare at the waterfall. Eventually, she moves down to help another customer.

“It’s a little early to be drinking by Vegas standards, don’t you think?” I’m just buzzed enough voicing that question seems like a smart idea.

Sober, I’m not shy. But I’m calculated. I get a good sense of someone right away. I decide to approach them knowing how they’ll react. With this stranger, I’m waiting to see how he’ll react.

When I glance over, he’s still looking ahead. Ignoring me.

I study his perfect profile. Every part of it is proportional, all the angles and ridges seamless. The stubble on his jaw is just a dusting, the unyielding line fully visible. It matches his straight nose and squared shoulders. Everything about his appearance and posture seems intentional, like he’s projecting a certain image the world has no choice but to accept.

I’ve given up on a response by the time his head turns in my direction.

The motion is deliberately slow, like he has an endless supply of time to look over. Green eyes meet mine a second before he swipes a thumb across his lower lip, clearing a drop of whiskey.

Fire simmers, low in my stomach. His whole face is attractive, not just his profile. And the full force of his attention hits me like a crashing wave, overwhelming and thrilling and a little terrifying.

“It’s a little hypocritical to be judging, don’t you think?”

Deliberately, he glances at the empty martini glass. And then he looks away.

No flirty comment. No glance at my cleavage. None of the behavior I’d expect from a guy alone in a bar, and my interest in him grows.

“I’ve been called worse.”

His eyes are back on me, just as devastating as the first glance was. One corner of his mouth curls up a centimeter, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. “Me too.”

“Pathetic?” I suggest. “You’re sitting alone in a hotel bar while the sun is still out. A Vegas hotel bar.”

He makes a show of looking at the empty seat between us. “Who are you here with, again?”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the small smile that appears. Flattery from a stranger is often awkward. I’d rather experience this—someone I’ve never met before matching my sass. Avoiding politeness and diving right into honesty.

“Are you here on a business trip, or something? With a wife at home who doesn’t like to go out past ten, so you forgot how?”

His chuckle is low and dark, and everything south of my naval clenches. “I’m here for a bachelor party,” he answers.

“Yours?”

“Fuck no.”

I’ve heard many watered-down versions of I’m not looking for a relationship. Usually it’s I’m waiting for the right woman or I’m not ready to settle down yet.

None of those prepared responses have encompassed the same undercurrent of certainty as those two words.

“Bachelor party, huh? You bailed?”

“I got a work call. Needed a minute—and a drink—after it.”

“Your boss is difficult?” Making assumptions seems to get more out of him.

“Understatement,” he mutters into his glass of whiskey.

I spin my stool, drawn in by his broodiness for some inexplicable reason. I’m used to guys coveting my attention, as conceited as that sounds. Offering me drinks and compliments and interest. This genuine indifference is refreshing. Intriguing.

“I’ll do you one better,” I say. “My boss is demanding, overbearing, and he also happens to be my father. So I can’t turn down a last-minute detour to Las Vegas, for example, on the way back to LA after visiting my best friend.”

He glances at me, then, and a glimmer of interest interrupts the staid expression.

Detachment shifts into something else. I feel his eyes trace my features before they trail down to the cleavage my dress teases at.

One corner of his mouth rises. An inch this time. Closer to actual amusement. The improvement feels like a victory, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because he looks like someone unaccustomed to smiling for show. Like a man who doesn’t laugh just to put others at ease.

“You work for your dad?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I mean to add more to my response, but his eyes drop to my legs and it’s hard to remember what I was going to say.

Attraction crackles between us, like lightning in a summer storm. The sparks feel raw and tangible. He’s not shy or bashful about looking, the way some guys are. His appraisal is purposeful and methodical as his eyes trace up my bare legs, not lingering on a single spot but missing nothing.

My thighs squeeze together when our gazes collide again. He has piercing, shrewd eyes. Paired with messy brown hair, a hint of stubble, and a chiseled jaw, his appearance is as striking as his presence.

“Dumb decision,” he says.

It takes me a few seconds to remember what we’re discussing. “Yep.”

The bartender sets a fresh martini down.

I thank her and grab the thin glass stem, tilting the glass toward him until the liquid almost spills over the rim. “Cheers.”

When I glance over, he’s still looking at me. I can’t get any read on what he’s thinking. There’s no arrogance or irritation. No interest or dismissiveness. Just silent scrutiny.

Eventually, he holds out a hand. His fancy suit suggests he has an important office job, but his hand is calloused and tanned, like he does more than sit at a desk all day. “I’m Oliver.”

I press my palm against his, suppressing a shiver when his grip closes around my hand. I’m imagining those long, sure fingers brushing my skin in other places. “Hannah.”

Since he didn’t share a last name, I don’t either.

That’s why people come to Vegas, right? To shed their inhibitions and be a different, wilder version of themselves.

I clutch back when his grip tightens. This feels more like an intimidation tactic than flirting, but my racing heart is reacting regardless. My insides are in a riot simply because this gorgeous, mysterious man is touching me.

Oliver continues studying me.

I stare back, feeling like I’m sitting beneath a spotlight.

I resist the urge to shift or blink. To say something and fracture this moment that feels important for some reason.

He drops my hand, then turns back to his drink like our conversation never happened. The words are a blur in my head. I was more focused on him than what he was saying. I exhale and scooch back onto my stool, trying to regain my composure.

“What do you do?”

“Huh?” I glance over, startled he’s speaking to me.

There’s a brief flash of entertainment on his face, so quick I barely catch it between blinks. Oliver’s mouth barely twitches before returning to a straight line. “For work. What do you do?”

“Oh.” So much for composed. “I, uh, I work for a sports agency. We negotiate contracts, network with teams, recruit new talent, handle marketing, brand deals. Stuff like that.”

“So you’re a sports agent?”

“Not exactly. I do whatever needs to be done.” I already told him I work for my father, but admitting it’s in a position that was created exclusively for me sounds pitiful.

“And you hate it,” he surmises.

“I don’t hate it. I just…it’s not what I thought I’d be doing at twenty-seven.”

“It gets worse, not better.”

I grimace, then take a sip of martini. His voice says he means it.

When I look over, Oliver is looking at me. Still. Again. It’s like I’m being tested, but I’m not sure how or why or on what.

“Do you hate your job?” I ask.

“No. I love it, actually.” He exhales, sounding irritated about the sentiment for some reason, then reaches for the tumbler that’s now close to empty.

I wish the bartender was refilling his drink as quickly as she’s been supplying my martinis. I’m strangely worried he’ll leave as soon as the amber liquid is all gone.

The sleeve of his suit jacket pulls back as he lifts the glass to sip, exposing the shiny watch on his wrist. The very expensive watch.

I already figured he was wealthy. Rooms here start at four figures and run into the high fives. But this hotel could have been the groom’s choice. A watch with that price tag suggests a whole different amount of personal wealth.

“Even considering your boss?”

“Even then.”

His phone rings. Oliver pulls it out and sighs before answering. “Hey.”

I stare at him as he listens to whatever is being said on the other end. He rubs a long finger along the rim of the tumbler, nodding along.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll meet you there.”

A pause.

“No, I’m close. Uh-huh. Bye.”

Oliver sets the phone down and drains the rest of his glass.

He’s leaving, and I’m embarrassingly disappointed about it. I’ve known him for all of twenty minutes.

I watch as he pulls out his wallet and drops two hundred-dollar bills on the bar top.

The bartender appears, whisking away the empty tumbler. “Can I get you anything else, sir?”

Oliver shakes his head and pushes the money toward her. His gaze doesn’t linger on the pretty brunette; he just gives her a polite smile before sliding his wallet back into his suit pocket. Considering I’ll probably never see him again, the lack of flirtation pleases me a ridiculous amount.

“For my drink.” He glances at me. “And hers. Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Once the bartender is gone, Oliver turns back toward me. “I’ve gotta go.”

I nod, like it makes no difference to me. “Don’t go too wild tonight. What happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay here.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes as he rests one arm on the counter. Something that makes me think Oliver isn’t quite as buttoned-up and serious as he seems.

Most people project the opposite—they act more interesting and important than they really are. Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to his hidden depths.

“You planning to stay here all night?” he asks.

I raise one shoulder, then drop it. “We’ll see.”

That sounds better than saying I have no plan for the evening past stopping here. I should eat something besides olives. Then go to bed, probably.

The rest of the evening stretches out like the flat section after a hill. I know this will be the highlight of my night, no matter what I do next. Where I go or who I talk to.

Oliver leans closer. My inhale is quick and surprised at the sudden proximity.

Based on how much his watch must have cost, he likely wears some outrageously pricy cologne. Where I’m sitting, savoring the smell, it’s worth every penny. Arousing and addictive and a little spicy.

“That doesn’t sound very fun.”

“This, coming from the guy dressed like he just left a conference call who’s hiding out from his friend’s bachelor party? I’m not taking any advice on having fun from you.”

“You didn’t even bother with a no offense?”

“You don’t seem offended.”

He shrugs. “I’m not.”

An involuntary smile curls my lips up. I like talking to Oliver. It feels like we’ve known each other for longer than we have.

“I wasn’t supposed to stop here,” I say. “I had a direct flight back to LA. No time to plan an itinerary for Vegas. I’ll probably get some food and then go to bed.”

He glances away, out at the fountains.

The air between us feels like it’s gaining substance. Thickening and filling with more than just a farewell. But Oliver’s expression is a blank slate when he meets my gaze, giving me no indication what he’s thinking or contemplating.

“According to the itinerary the best man sent, we’re going to Champagne Cabaret at eleven.”

“Okay… Have fun.” I’m guessing that’s a strip club.

Oliver smirks, and it’s crippling. The sight is so sudden, so unexpected, so consuming, that I have to remind myself to breathe.

It’s completely different from him staring straight ahead, only offering a glimpse of his profile. Oliver with dancing eyes and a dimple in one cheek, inches away, looks like a secret. A sight I don’t want to share. A view I won’t forget.

“Will you meet me there? I’ll ditch the group. We can go wherever you want.”

Not at all what I was expecting him to say.

“Won’t they mind?” I ask.

“That I’m abandoning them while they’re surrounded by booze and half-naked women?” He raises one eyebrow. “Doubt it.”

Oliver’s phone begins buzzing again. He glances at the screen but doesn’t answer it.

His green gaze is back on me immediately, waiting for an answer. He’s looking at me like he knows exactly what he’s staring at, and no one has ever appraised me so confidently before.

“Isn’t getting a lap dance in a strip club part of the Vegas bachelor party experience?”

I’m treated to a second glimpse of his smirk, and the effect is no less potent this time. “Are you offering?”

My heartbeat stutters when he takes another step closer, the stiff material of his suit pants brushing against my bare legs.

Heat crawls across my cheeks as my body temperature spikes. I’m picturing it. I’m imagining the thick fabric of his pants chafing against the inside of my thighs. His hands gripping my hips. His erection growing beneath me. Oliver’s eyes flare, and I think he’s imagining me in his lap too.

“You can’t afford me.” I take a fortifying sip of gin, attempting ignorance to his proximity and trying to regain a little control of the conversation. I’m in an unfamiliar city, talking to a strange man. I might be feeling a tad reckless and a lot tipsy, but I wasn’t expecting this to go anywhere.

I don’t get a whole smile. It’s a half one, maybe even a quarter.

“Never been told that before.” His words are dry, almost dismal. Hardly a boast.

“You do this a lot?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Really?”

“Really. I work a lot. And…I’m usually terrible about going after what I want.”

Me too. Until I hit that green button earlier.

“You saying you want me?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Hannah.” His voice is all gravel, even lower than before, and I feel it directly between my legs. My name sounds like a dirty word, spoken in that indecent rumble. “Will you meet me?”

“Yes,” I whisper, not sure what I’m agreeing to.

This feels like more than sex. More than continuing a conversation. I’ve been wading away from shore, and now I’m suddenly realizing how deep that water around me has gotten.

His lips curve up, and I think he’s going to kiss me.

I’m expecting it. Anticipating it. I even swipe my tongue across my bottom lip.

Oliver catches the movement, and his eyes darken to pine. But he doesn’t kiss me. He holds out his hand, again, like we just closed a business deal.

I take it with a bemused laugh that fades when his thumb brushes against my knuckles. A simple touch, and it infects my whole body.

He drops my hand, then walks away.

I glance over one shoulder to watch him leave.

Oliver doesn’t strike me as the sort of man who looks back, though.

And I’m right.

He doesn’t.