Page 6 of Anti-Hero

Small talk with several well-connected guests resulted in zero job opportunities, so I’m facing an expensive trip back into the city with no income stream in sight.

The silkdress I splurged on to look like I belonged here is likely ruined. A blonde woman spilled her Aperol spritz on me, resulting in a sticky, noticeable stain just below my boobs. Blondie offered a haughty apology with a pointed undertone ofwatch where you’re goingbefore tottering away on her stilettos.Shehad run intome.

Me a year ago—me a month ago—would have demanded she pay for dry-cleaning. The red soles of her six-inch heels suggested she could afford it.

But the me tonight, exhausted with sore cheeks from fake smiling, simply took it as a sign to leave before another catastrophe struck.

And the damn cherry on top of a shitty sundae? I’m going to have to find a new neighborhood bar. The bartender at the one two blocks down from my Brooklyn apartment, where I went to see if they were hiring—spoiler alert: they’re fully staffed—is who recommended I come to this event. She said Hamptons parties are filled with the bored, the well connected, and the wealthy. Just not thehiring, apparently.

“Monty! Monty!”

My shoulders stiffen when I instantly recognize his voice. I would know it was him even if he didn’t insist on calling me by that absurd nickname.

I continue walking-slash-hobbling along. Kit Kensington is the last person I feel like facing right now. His presence here tops the list of tonight’s calamities.

It’s shocking he spotted my departure through his crowd of admirers.

Footfalls sound behind me, drawing closer.

“Go away, Chris,” I say without turning around.

Kithatesbeing called Chris.

He doesn’t call out again, so I think I’ve successfullyescaped.

But then, as soon as I’m clear of the ballroom doors and inside the lobby, a warm hand closes around my upper arm and tugs me to the left.

Kit’s calloused palm and fingers wrap around the entirety of my bicep. Rougher skin than I’d expect from someone born with billions in their bank account. He’s neverhadto work for anything.

I whirl on him, more peeved than I’ve felt since … my last conversation with Kit probably. He possesses this infuriating ability to wriggle beneath my skin like a relentless splinter. Not painful, but annoying. Impossible to ignore.

Three separate conversations I struck up earlier were interrupted by someone realizing Kit was in attendance tonight, so I know he’s not chasing me down because he has no one to talk to.

“Let go of me,” I state when his hand doesn’t drop.

In a humiliating turn of events, my voice wobbles on the last syllable. That crack—hysterical female incoming!—paired with the venom in my tone, would be enough to make most men take a step back.

Kit Kensington is not most men.

And heisa man, I acknowledge reluctantly. He’s Lili’slittlebrother, and I try to treat him like a kid, but he doesn’t look like an overgrown teenager. He looks like a fantasy wearing a custom-tailored suit. And he doesn’t sound like a boy either. His deep baritone is as attractive as the rest of him, compelling and commanding. Like crisp velvet.

Thanks to the heels pinching my toes, I’m directly at eye level with his shoulders. They didn’t look so broad two years ago. Lili’s friend was right about him being in impressive shape. Kit loves to sail and probably sails shirtlessand?—

Crap. I think I’mpossiblychecking him out.

“Why do you smell like—oh.”

Kit’s focused on the blemish on my dress, not the direction of my gaze, which is a relief. The stain is hard to miss—several inches wide and several shades darker than the fabric it splashed on. Next time I buy a gown that makes a sizable dent in my savings account, it’ll be black. Classicanddurable.

I yank my arm free from his grip since he still hasn’t let go. “Goodbye, Kit.”

He keeps pace with me easily—damn blister—as I hustle across the lobby toward the revolving door. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” I reply curtly.

“Chicago?”

“No. I moved to New York a couple of weeks ago.”

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