The Hating Season (Seasons #2) - K.A.Linde Page 0,63
open, prepared to tell whoever it was to leave, but standing on the threshold was Court Kensington. In a tuxedo. Looking sexy as hell.
“Court?”
“Hey, English.”
“What… what are you doing here?” I forced myself to say. “How did you even know where I live?”
“Lark told me.”
Lark. Ah. She must have said something to him. She was usually such a good friend. This confrontation was the last thing I needed tonight.
“I don’t know what she said, but I really don’t want to do this tonight.”
“You just left,” he accused.
“Well, yeah,” I said with a shrug. “Why was I even there? I don’t know Penn and Natalie. I’m just a publicist. I don’t even know why I got an invite.”
“But that wasn’t why you left.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked up at me without guile.
I sighed. “It doesn’t matter why I left.”
“I think it does.”
I reached out to close the door. “Just go back to your heiress, Court.”
He put his hand out to stop it short. “Can we talk? Really talk.”
“About what?” I said irritably. “I think I saw all that I needed. I don’t need words wrapped in lies. I just want to get some sleep.”
“You like me.” He said it so matter-of-fact. As if there was no other option. Not a single other possibility.
I met that beautiful blue gaze and tried not to flinch. Hearing it out of his mouth made it all the worse. I was not supposed to fall for Court Kensington. A lamb wasn’t supposed to fall for the wolf.
With a sigh, I let the door swing all the way open. “You might as well come inside.”
I didn’t wait for his reply. I just turned on my heel and strode into the kitchen. I’d just purchased a bottle of Hendrick’s the day before with vermouth and olives. Thank god for yesterday English’s quick thinking.
I poured the contents of the drinks into a shaker and vigorously shook them. Then, I carefully filled each martini glass nearly to the rim, leaving just enough room for olives.
“You look like you’ve done that before,” Court observed.
“I started bartending when I was sixteen.” I passed him the drink.
“How did that happen?”
“I grew up fast and realized early on that I could use that to my advantage to make a lot of money. If you think fixing your bullshit is hard, you should see me stop a bar fight without lifting my finger. It’s a party trick.”
Court furrowed his brow. “But I thought you grew up in Hollywood.”
“I grew up in LA. Hollywood is for the birds.”
He looked at me as if I were a puzzle that he couldn’t quite put together and then took a sip of the martini. “You know I prefer vodka martinis.”
“Go to hell, Kensington.”
He smirked at me. “Why did you leave, English?”
“You know why I left.”
“Because you didn’t want to see me with Poppy.”
“Because watching you throw another woman in my face felt less than stellar,” I quipped.
“But you shouldn’t care,” he countered. “You were the one who said that this couldn’t happen.”
“It can’t,” I said unconvincingly.
“And yet…” He held his hand out, gesturing to the apartment. As if his very presence changed that.
“Just because I said that this couldn’t happen… that I want to watch you with someone that you don’t even like. Or watch your jealous stupidity about Robert.” I shook my head. “I came there tonight, hoping I could talk to you and that we could mend what I’d fractured with my assumptions about your character. But then…”
“I proved you right,” he finished.
I shrugged. “At least you proved that when you’re hurt, you lash out. And I don’t know what to do with that information, Court. Not after what happened to me.”
“I didn’t purposely lash out. I thought I should move on. That the easiest way to stop thinking about you was to be with someone else.” He met my gaze, strong and steady. “Not only did it not work, but I had to deal with Poppy all night.”
“You seemed perfectly okay with that from where I stood.”
“I wanted you to think that.”
I grumbled in exasperation. “That’s exactly my point.”
“So, maybe I did lash out.” He drained the remainder of his martini and set it aside. Then, he stepped closer to me. “But if you didn’t feel anything for me, then it wouldn’t have even mattered.”
“But I do,” I whispered.
His eyes rounded. As if he couldn’t believe that I’d admitted it. In some way, I couldn’t believe I’d admitted it.