Chapter 2
KENDALL
It’s been eight hours since I left the rink, and I can’t stop thinking about Patterson’s blue-green eyes burning through me.
He glared at me like I was something he wanted to destroy, and I hate that my body still responds to that.
It frustrates me that I noticed how broad his shoulders were in his practice jersey.
He’s the last asshole on this planet I should be thinking about right now.
I set my art supplies on the dining room table of the apartment I’m subletting until the end of May.
The furnished place came with generic IKEA furniture and beige walls that have me itching to add color, but the light is good, and the rent is reasonable for Manhattan.
Brushes and charcoal pencils are scattered across the oak surface, so I organize them the way I always do when my mind won’t settle.
Several easels are propped against the wall by the door, and blank canvases are stacked on top of the coffee table, like monuments waiting to be transformed.
My leather-bound notebook sits on the edge of the table, the cover worn soft from years of being shoved into bags and pulled out in galleries and cafés across the world.
My whole life is in there—contact information for galleries, sketches from random travels, half-finished ideas, my personal thoughts, and grocery lists. It’s my random catch-all.
Outside my window, the January sky has turned that shade of gray that somehow makes it feel colder than it is.
Sirens wail below, and voices carry through the streets.
I actually missed this city more than I expected, and after five years gone, I thought I’d be over it by now. Guess this will always be home.
After pouring myself a glass of wine, I focus on the work ahead of me, but I’m reminded of how Patterson stormed off that rink like I’d set his world on fire. Being back in New York isn’t about him. I came here for a job, and that’s it. Or at least that’s what I tell myself.
I grab the roster Dad gave me and scan over the names of the twenty players I need to paint before the first of May.
If I complete two to three per week, I’ll finish ahead of time, and then I can work on the charity paintings.
It’s an aggressive schedule, but not impossible, considering I have nothing else going on right now.
This project could open doors for me in the US market. It’s so damn important for me to put my best foot forward and show everyone why I earned this opportunity.
I glance over the notes I made about each player. Callan Riddick will be easy because he’s the captain with a natural authority that will translate well to canvas. Hunter Matthews and Ryan Brady will be fun, all swagger and energy. Wyatt King, the rookie, will probably be nervous and stiff.
Then there’s Patterson. The jerk who keeps taking up space in my mind without permission.
I’m brought back to that moment six years ago that I can’t forget, no matter how many miles and years are put between us. Maybe I am the villain? Maybe we both are.
My phone vibrates.
Dad
Great job today, sweetheart. The team is excited to work with you. Let me know if anyone gives you trouble.
Kendall
Thanks, Dad! Thinking about bringing my skates and taking a few laps around the rink tomorrow.
Dad
You still remember how?
Kendall
Of course. It’s like riding a bike.
I lean back on the cushion and stare at the ceiling.
When Patterson called me a nepo baby, it stung.
Comments like that are cruel. He can act like my accomplishments mean absolutely nothing, even though I’ve spent five years proving myself in galleries across Europe.
Nobody gave a shit whose daughter I was.
A knock at my door nearly makes me jump out of my skin. I stay quiet because I’m not expecting anyone, but then I hear my best friend, Addison’s, voice from the other side.
“Keke! I know you’re in there because I tracked you on our location app. Open up,” she says.
“Coming.” I stand and realize I drank that glass of wine too fast because my head swirls as I unlock the dead bolt and open the door.
Addison’s holding a box of pizza in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. “Hungry?”
“Starving,” I tell her.
“You look like hell,” she says cheerfully while moving past me into the apartment.
“Were your best-friend senses going off or something?”
“Kinda.” She sets everything on the counter and starts opening cabinets, searching for plates. She hands me one. “I stopped and got the good stuff.”
“I already have a bottle of Zinfandel open.”
“Yeah, but this is your favorite.” She uncorks the sweet red and refills my empty glass without asking. “So, saw my brother today.”
“Yeah? Which one?” I ask.
“Don’t play dumb. Patterson had a lot to say. He’s livid.”
“Oh, well. Did he tell you how he called me a nepo baby in front of the entire team?”
“Actually, he left that part out.” Her expression changes, giving me the same angry expression I saw on her brother’s face earlier. “Fuck him.”
“I thought time and space would change that, where we could at least be in the same room together, but I was wrong. I genuinely hate him, Addy.” The words come out harsh, but I don’t take them back. “Everything about him makes me want to scream.”
She studies me while taking a bite of pizza. “I still don’t understand why.”
“Really? Have you heard how he talks to people and acts so damn cocky? He treats me like dog shit on his shoe. And anytime we’re close, he acts like I’m the problem when he’s the one who—” I stop myself before I say too much.
“If he wasn’t such an arrogant, infuriating asshole, I could tolerate him. ”
Addison snorts. “Yeah, but if he didn’t act like that, he’d be Jameson. Mr. Charming.”
The realization stings more than I want to admit.
Strip away the hostility, the edge, the constant need to push me away, and Patterson would be exactly like the man I almost married.
Sure, they have the same face, but their personalities are different.
But let it be known that being engaged to his twin isn’t the reason I can’t stop thinking about him.
It’s the fire underneath the ice and the way he finds me in crowded rooms. I hate that I notice.
She shrugs. “Honesty without sugarcoating, combined with that attitude, is Patterson’s entire personality. I’m convinced you two are obsessed with hating one another.”
“Obsessed?” I sarcastically laugh. “I wish he didn’t exist.”
She holds up her hands. “But he does.”
Addison doesn’t know what happened between Patterson and me. It’s a skeleton that’s been dangling in my closet for far too long.
“I really don’t get it though.” She reaches for another slice. “You and Jameson ended things years ago. Twin loyalty is fucking stupid.”
I keep my expression neutral because Jameson ended things with me. He loved me, but he wasn’t in love with me. Sometimes, it’s still a hard truth for me to swallow.
“I really don’t know how I’m going to work with him for his portrait.” I take a sip of wine.
“You could pull references from the internet,” she suggests.
“Of course, but I’d rather do something fresh because I have a lot to prove.”
“I understand. But remember summer will be here before we know it.”
My shoulders relax because she’s right. In the grand scheme of things, a few months won’t kill me.
“Tell me about your subway project. I’ve been dying to know more about it,” I say.
Addison is a painting prodigy, and the only reason I got the job in Europe. She recommended me instead, and a recommendation from the Addison Cross is like being blessed by the Pope. It’s a huge deal in the art world. It’s not something I asked for, and I was surprised she’d do it.
Her eyes light up. “Okay, so you know how I’ve always been obsessed with people-watching?”
“Yeah, like how you used to sketch strangers on napkins during our coffee dates.”
“Exactly. So, I started painting large-scale portraits of subway riders. They’re not posed.
It’s a collection of realness. Like, there’s one of this woman sleeping against the window with her work badge still clipped to her scrubs.
A teenager reading a paperback with the cover torn off.
An old man holding a birthday balloon, alone, staring at nothing.
” She gestures with her wineglass. “Each one is five feet, and I’m painting them in a hyper realistic style with bursts of abstract color bleeding out from them.
It’s like I can see their emotions leaking onto the canvas. ”
Chills run up my arms when I envision them.
“Wow. That sounds incredible, Addy.”
“You should come stop by the studio and check them out. I think it’s the most personal set of work I’ve ever done. But I still have three more pieces to finish by spring for the summer gala, and I’m terrified I’ll run out of time.”
“You’ll make it happen.”
She scoffs and smirks. “I’m not as conditioned to painting as you. You’ve been training like an athlete, painting entire portraits every two to three days. I’m lucky if I can finish one in a month.”
“Babe, you’re painting on five-foot canvases. The square footage is the same.”
Her eyes soften. “I guess you’re right. So, tell me more about Europe. Think I would’ve regretted turning it down?”
“I don’t think you’d have liked it. Some days, it was worse than training for the Olympics.”
A snort escapes her. “No.”
“Oh, yes. The hours were brutal—all work and no play. Painting ten hours a day for years. It was my entire life.”
“Should I apologize? Sounds like torture.”
“No. I’m glad I went. I learned a lot and feel like the hours I put in placed me ten years ahead.
However, no one respected me because I was your replacement.
Of course, I had to outwork them until they couldn’t ignore me any longer.
The money was fantastic though. Thanks to you, I’ve got years of savings built up.
It was a win-win, and I’m so appreciative. ”
“I’m thrilled for you, Keke. How was dating? Any passionate affairs with sexy French artists?”
“I wish. There was no time for anything.”
“Seriously? Not one hookup? Work and sex are never mutually exclusive.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Wait. Does that mean the last person you dated was Jameson?”
I roll my eyes. “Thanks for that reminder.”
“Speaking of which, what’s the deal with you and Damien Blackwell? I heard you were at Billie’s New Year’s Eve party together.”
“Who told you that?”
“Patterson. He was so mad today. Can’t explain it.”
A laugh escapes me. “There’s nothing going on between Blackwell and me. We’ve gone on a few dates, and we kissed at midnight.”
The kiss meant nothing to me, but Patterson doesn’t know that.
All he saw was Damien’s arm around my waist, my hands on Damien’s neck, and my eyes locked on Patterson the entire time.
I wanted him to watch, to feel something, anything, after years of giving me nothing but silence and icy stares.
It worked. I watched him crack, just like he did today.
After the countdown, I walked straight up to him while his model date tugged at his arm. I stood close enough to smell his cologne, close enough to see his jaw clench. I gave him nothing. No words. No insults. Just my presence and the weight of everything unsaid between us.
Addison tilts her head. “Did you date Blackwell to get under Patterson’s skin?”
“No.” I tuck my lips into my mouth.
“Keke.”
“Upsetting Patterson was a bonus.” I shrug, not sorry about it. If Patterson wants to pretend I don’t exist, I’ll make damn sure he can’t look away. “Honestly, he makes aggravating him too easy.”
“Ignore my brother.”
“Oh, I am. And I’ve already told Damien that I needed to focus on my project. It’s easier for me to concentrate when there isn’t someone else to entertain. Plus, they still have tons of games to play. You know?”
“No, but I’ll take your word for it. Sex inspires me,” she says with a shrug. “The fooling around and falling in love part is my favorite. I honestly miss the hell out of that.”
“Yeah,” I say, understanding that more than she knows. “I do like being an independent woman though.”
“Me too,” she says, and we clink our wineglasses together as we continue eating. “There’s something about being able to do your own thing and getting dicked down whenever you want. Sometimes you can have your cake and eat it too.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say. “That’s never worked for me.”
We easily fall back into that friendship we’ve always had, no matter how much time has passed.
A few hours later, Addison gets up to leave and she pulls me into a tight hug. “I’m excited you’re back.”
“Me too.”
“If Patterson pulls any more shit, let me know.”
“So you can murder him?”
“Nah. I won’t get my hands dirty. I’ll just tell my dad he’s being disrespectful to you. It would be handled within twenty-four hours.” She grins before heading out. “Now, how about you try to have fun while you’re in the city? Live a little.”
“I’m not sure if I know how to anymore,” I tell her.
“Try,” she encourages.
After she’s gone, I grab my notebook and add more notes about the players.
Then I draw his face in the margin without meaning to.
It’s rough lines at first, followed by the angle of his jaw and the shape of his eyes.
I add the perfect slope of his nose and the upward curve of his mouth.
I erase and redraw his eyebrow three times before the arch is right.
He and Jameson may be identical, but my pencil isn’t drawing the warmth around his eyes.
I’m capturing Patterson’s grit, the lock of his jaw before he says something cruel.
It’s a special coldness that he reserves for me.
After all these years, Patterson’s face is the one that refuses to leave me alone.
I close the notebook with force and shove it across the table.
Five years away wasn’t enough time for me to get him out of my system, but I cannot do this with him. It would never work.
The bottom line is I’m here to do a job, one that my dad begged me to take. I want to make him proud.
Patterson Cross can hate me forever, but I refuse to let him run me off.
He can go fuck himself.