Page 4 of Anti-Hero

I’m waiting, too, but not for him.

Her dress is blue, I decide.

“Next time, use the restrooms by the spa,” Flynn advises, fillingthe brief pause. “Not many people know about those. Local secret.” He winks conspiratorially.

Flynn—like me—has been to many events here before. The Hamptons’ most exclusive parties are held at this hotel or at Atlantic Crest Country Club.

“Good to know. Thanks.” Collins picks up her champagne flute with long, delicate fingers.

I’ve never seen her play before, but I can picture her sitting at a piano so easily. Can practically hear the notes she’d press echo in my head.

Then, my thoughts swerve. I imagine those hands sliding off ivory keys. Running down my chest, fisting my cock. A sudden bolt of heat sizzles down my spine, which I attempt to douse with a long sip of scotch. The effect is more like tossing gasoline on smoldering embers since she’s still intentionally ignoring me.

“Is this your first visit to the Hamptons?”

Flynn was the one who asked the question, but Collins looks at me, not him, as she answers, “No. I’ve been here before.”

I hold her gaze, waiting. For a few seconds, it feels like the global population has dwindled down to two.

She swallows once before adding, “Hi, Kit.”

Satisfaction swirls with adrenaline as I smirk at her. “Hey. Nice ball gown, Monty.”

Collins purses her lips. She’s never taken a single compliment I’ve given her as anything other than a veiled insult. Or maybe she’s mad about the nickname. “Thank you. That suitalmostmakes you look like an adult.”

My smile widens. “Perfect. I told my tailor tonight’s dress code wasovergrown teenager.”

The last time I saw Collins Tate was the same time Flynn did. A little over two years ago and approximately five miles from here, at my grandparents’ Hamptons estate.

When Collins arrived at the party, I picked a stupid argument that ended with her calling me an overgrown teenager and stalking off. Not an inaccurate description or even an unwarranted one, but unpleasant, coming from the one woman Ireallywanted to view me as a man.

Unfortunately, Idorevert to a teenager around her. Or worse. A juvenile, teasing a pretty girl on the playground because he doesn’t know how else to hold her attention.

“How do you two know each other?” Flynn wonders, brow crinkling with obvious confusion.

Our social circles overlap so much that they’re essentially the same sphere. Side effect of being best friends since you were in diapers.

“I’m friends with hisoldersister,” Collins replies before I can.

The emphasis she places onolderis impossible to miss. Also unnecessary. I only have one sister. But I’m unsurprised she chose that particular adjective. Collins loves acting like the eighteen months that separate our birthdays are an eon of maturity. To be fair, she’s rarely seen me act like a responsible adult.

Most women find my nonchalance charming.

Flynn snaps his fingers, then exclaims, “Oh, that’sright! You’re the hot-dog girl!”

“I’m what?” Collins smiles indulgently, but the way her fingers pinch the stem of her champagne flute betrays her annoyance. The thin glass looks liable to snap, so anger might be more accurate.

Ihaven’t forgotten the topic I argued with Collins about the last time we spoke, but I wish Flynn’s alcohol amnesia had lasted longer.

“You’re the girl who got into the argument with Kit about hotdogs,” my best friend continues, grinning. “Pretty impressive actually. For Kensington’smanyfaults, he’s one hell of a debater.”

“I appreciate the compliment.” Collins is still smiling, and it’s still her fake one. “But I don’t remember that.” She smooths her hair, even though there’s not a single strand out of place.

Liar, sits ready at the tip of my tongue. I’m certain she remembers, and I’m equally positive we could stand here all night and she’d never admit it.Stubbornis the third word I’d use to describe her, right afterdevastatingly gorgeous.

I swish the amber contents in my glass, watching the scotch splash up the sides and drip back down. “Did windy Chicago blow you all the way back to the East Coast, Collins?”

“Something like that.” She glances away after that vague reply to my raging curiosity, likely looking for an escape route from continued conversation with me.

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