“Fine. Whatever. I messed up.” He set the mug down on the coffee table. His blue eyes had shuttered, gone cold. “Can I go back to sleep now?”
“No. You didn’t just fuck up. You royally fucked up. You took the one weekend I was out of town and fucking did this on purpose, Court!”
“I didn’t know…”
“But you didn’t leave either!” I snapped back. “You saw it was illegal and played poker all night. Lark had to drag you out of there and you didn’t even want to leave.”
“Okay. I get it. Fuck, English. I fucked up. Get off of my case.”
“Oh excuse me for being the first person in your life to hold you accountable for your actions,” I ground out.
I knew I was being harsh on him. But he didn’t even fucking care about what it would have done. The problems he could have caused. He was so nonchalant. And I just couldn’t accept his response. It wasn’t enough. There was no change coming from acknowledging he did something wrong. It didn’t fix his behavior.
Court stepped forward. His teeth ground together. “What the fuck has gotten into you?”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t need you to lay into me at eight o’clock in the morning for something that didn’t even happen.” His eyes assessed me as if he could see right through the jet lag and coffee buzz and anger to what was lurking below. “What are you even doing in New York? Aren’t you supposed to be in London with Josh?”
“I came back early.”
“Why?” he demanded. “You were raving about your trip.”
He glanced up and down at me. Judging what was in front of him. Seeing me like I didn’t like anyone to see me.
“Doesn’t fucking matter,” I said, losing some of my edge.
“Why aren’t you wearing your wedding ring?”
“That is none of your business.”
A spark of pity flashed through his cerulean blue irises. “English…”
“Don’t,” I spat. “We’re here to talk about you. And the fucking shit that you pulled while I was gone.
Anger flared in him. He took another step closer. So close that we nearly shared breath.
“This has nothing to do with me,” he growled. “You’re putting your own fucking personal problems on me. I don’t have to deal with this shit, English.”
My own anger ignited by his. “I’m not doing anything of the sort. I’m here to whip your ass into shape. I’m not here to coddle you like everyone else in your life. If you don’t like it, take it up with your mother. She was the one who hired me to fix your bullshit before you lost her the election.”
“I’m not an idiot,” Court snarled. “You can put me down and treat me like an ass if you want. But I see what the fuck you’re doing, English.”
“Good. Then you’ll stop acting like someone who needs their hand held every time they walk out into public?”
“Berate me all you want. This is about you and Josh. Not me.”
“Go fuck yourself,” I spat.
His eyes widened a fraction at the words that left my mouth. The fury that had nothing to do with him. But that I was using against him.
I thought that I’d had it all under control. I had such a picture perfect life. I was married to the Josh Hutch. He was the biggest up-and-coming movie star on the scene. He’d been hand-picked to remake the Bourne trilogy. I was the top celebrity publicist at my agency in LA. Everyone wanted to work with me. We went to premieres and sipped champagne and lived the life.
Except that hadn’t been right, had it?
I’d wanted more. I’d wanted my own agency. A place to work with fewer clients. Ones who actually cared and didn’t just need someone to secure cocaine and make sure their sex tapes didn’t end up on the internet. Or did depending on the person. So, when I’d gotten offered to work for the Kensingtons. Step into New York high society, work for a political candidate. I’d thought it was my chance.
And now, all of those pieces crumbled into ash.
I was left staring into Court Kensington’s impossible baby blues. Wondering where it had all gone wrong. And how I could fucking fix my life like I fixed everyone else’s.
“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Court asked after a tense silent minute.
He’d moved a step closer. Our breath mingled. I could feel the heat rising from his skin. The fury that pulled us together like magnets. A sense that we were both so beyond fucked up that impossibly we were attracted to each other. We hated each other so supremely that somehow, at any second, it could tip the other direction.
His eyes darted to my lips. I drew a line across the bottom one with my tongue. A reflex. Or was it?
My breaths came out irrationally loud. I could hear my own heartbeat in my ears. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Time slowed until seconds felt like hours. And we just stared, edged, hedged, waited, wondered, wanted.
And then the moment the scales tipped and he moved forward, as if he were actually going to do it, actually going to cross that divide, I jolted out of that awareness. I shoved him back away from me.
“Fuck, Court,” I cried.
His eyes rounded as if he couldn’t believe for a second that the playboy prince had misread the signs. Then he returned to careful neutrality. Born out of boredom and masks and societal pressure.
“Are you done?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m fucking done. I’m going back to LA.”
“What?” His eyebrows rose.
“Don’t get too excited. Just for a few days to handle some business. I don’t want you to fucking leave this apartment until I get back. Are we clear?”
“I am not on lock down again.”
“Yes, you are. Because I can’t trust you not to do something that will land you in the papers.”
He glared at me. Any warmth we’d been mustering evaporated. “Whatever.”
“Be a good boy,” I said, patting his cheek twice.
He looked like he might bite me for the insult, but I was already storming toward the elevator to leave this hell hole. He muttered something under his breath, but I didn’t catch it. I assumed he called me a bitch. It wouldn’t have been the first time.
But as soon as the elevator doors closed, and I leaned back heavily. God, maybe I should get some sleep. What the fuck had I been thinking?
I had only one rule: don’t get involved with clients.
I’d never broken it.
And I had just almost kissed Court Kensington.
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