Chapter 10
KENDALL
It’s been two days since Patterson ran out of our session like his ass was on fire, and I haven’t been able to stop replaying his parting shot about how I ran away from things when I went to Europe. He intended for his words to hurt, and they did because they were true.
I don’t know how it’s possible this man still knows how to get under my skin. I’m tired of him doing this same song and dance, even if I’m addicted to it. This is a twisted and risky game of cat and mouse. Sometimes, I’m the predator, and other times, I’m the prey.
My father would absolutely lose respect for me if I dated his star player.
Patterson would be put on the chopping block and picked up fast by another team.
Not to mention, I don’t think Jameson would approve of me playing dirty with Patterson.
They are very protective of one another, and no part of me wants to come between them. Ever.
But I need Pattycakes to know he’s not completely in control anymore.
A smirk touches my deep crimson lips as I look at my reflection on the glass doors of the facility.
My red silk blouse is tucked into a black skirt that’s a little too short for a professional setting.
The heels I chose add three inches to my height, putting me even closer to Patterson’s lips.
My legs look endless, and my ass looks great.
If he wants to keep throwing low blows, I’ll make sure he chokes on his tongue.
Today, I get to be the big bad wolf.
When I arrive, the conference room is empty. Late afternoon light streams through the windows. I arrange my supplies and try to convince myself the flutter in my stomach is anticipation and not nerves. Today is about keeping control of the situation, even if Patterson is unpredictable.
At exactly two o’clock, he enters, smelling so damn good that I nearly stop breathing.
I turn and properly eye-fuck him before throwing him a smirk.
His eyes slide down my body slow enough that I feel him everywhere. Something shifts in his expression, and his jaw clenches.
“Why are you dressed that way?”
“Not sure what you’re talking about.” I grab my sketchbook, then strut across the room to sit.
“You’re trying to impress someone.”
“Oh? So, this outfit works? I have a date. Thanks for confirming I’m dressed appropriately.” I keep my voice casual, like it doesn’t matter, but I can feel the possessiveness rolling off him. “With that being said, I’d appreciate it if we stayed on schedule today.”
He faces me. “A date? Really? With Damien again?”
“Someone new.”
“Who?”
“That’s none of your business.” I glance up and catch the storm brewing behind his eyes.
“Is it another player? That seems to be your type,” he says.
“Sit so we can get started.” I bite my bottom lip, proud that I’ve broken him down faster than I thought was possible.
I set down my pencil and cross my legs, watching his eyes track the movement before snapping back to my face.
“You go on five dates a week. Why does it matter?”
He laughs in my face. “You’re watching what I do online.”
“Pfft.”
His smile is almost contagious. He’s been on my mind since I saw him at Billie Calloway’s party on New Year’s Eve, but I could never admit that.
“Did you forget who my bestie is? Your sister loves telling me what and who you’re doing. You know, the other day, I was so close to telling her you’d kissed me all those years ago.”
“You kissed me while you were dating my twin brother. That’s fucked up,” he says, rolling his eyes and shoving his hands into his pockets. “But what’s even more fucked up is, you said yes when he proposed. Even though you wished it were me fucking you instead of him.”
“That is not true,” I tell him, questioning myself. Was it?
The silence becomes unbearable.
“Your hate isn’t working today. Try harder to stop eye-fucking me, okay?
Your mouth says one thing, but your body says another,” I tell him, acting unfazed even though my insides are trembling.
“Now sit down, pretty, pretty please?” I ask, blinking up at him, staying completely calm even though my walls are shattering.
That’s the problem with Patterson; I never expect what he’ll say or do.
Thankfully, he huffs, then drops into the chair and sprawls back with his legs spread wide, but there’s nothing relaxed about it. His body is tight, like he’s going to snap at any second.
I flip open my sketchbook and start working, listening to the lead of the pencil scratch against the paper. A few minutes pass before he speaks again.
“You call Jameson back yet?”
The question shouldn’t affect me as much as it does—because the answer is no, and the reason is sitting right in front of me, looking at me like he wants to either kiss me or strangle me.
“I’ve been busy, focusing on my work.”
“But you can go on a date?”
I don’t look up. “Exactly. I’m searching for something new this time. I’m not intrigued by looking into the past.” I narrow my eyes at him, hoping he gets the hint.
Jameson and I are over. Patterson and me? Well, that can never begin.
It’s almost as if he relaxes, and then I notice something flicker across his face.
Now I tilt my head at him. “You do know I can read you like a book, right? There were some advantages to almost marrying your twin. Your mannerisms are the same. Even if you try to hide how you feel, I can still see your emotions in your eyes and on your face.” I point to his mouth.
“Sometimes the edge of your lip lifts. And your pupils focus and unfocus. I see you, Pattycakes, and you hate that.”
“Shut up. You don’t know shit.”
His nostrils flare, and I smile because he knows I can read him.
“Whatever you say,” I offer as he grows more frustrated.
“Why are you so worked up? When you spoke to Jameson on Monday, did he say he wanted to ask me out again or something?”
He shrugs, and his shit-eating grin returns. He’s masking himself from me, putting on an act. “He might have mentioned it.”
“Wait, what?” This information blindsides me because I was joking. “You talked about me?”
The thought of that confuses me.
“Maybe you should call him back and talk to him yourself. I’m not your middleman.” He does the shoo motion with his hand, giving me that rude attitude of his.
“Why do you do that?” I ask.
He glares at me. “Enlighten me, babe.”
“Give me up.” My heart rate increases.
The room suddenly feels hot, or maybe it’s the fact that I said something truthful.
He laughs. “Oh, please don’t flatter yourself. If I wanted you, I’d have you. You and I both know that.”
Our eye contact doesn’t break.
“I’m going to call bullshit on that,” I tell him, knowing he’s trying to hurt me, but it’s not working. I see through it. I happily go back to sketching because it’s easier than looking at him. “We need to focus.”
“I am.”
“Nah. You’re interrogating me.”
“I’m making conversation.” He shifts in the chair, the leather creaking under his weight. “Isn’t that what you tell everyone who sits for one of these portraits. Why didn’t I get the artist’s confidentiality promise?”
I glance up at him. “Because I already keep all of our interactions to myself.”
His eyes drop to my legs again. “Ah, that makes me feel like your dirty little secret, Ken Doll.”
The words hit me low in my stomach, and I force myself not to react. “I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”
“Just being myself,” he says. “And that happens to be your kryptonite.”
“Now who’s flattering themselves?” I ask nonchalantly, even though he’s right.
I actually love taming assholes. It used to be my specialty. That’s why they call me The Destroyer.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and the position puts him closer to me than I expected.
“Look me in the eye and tell me I’m not haunting the hallways of your mind.”
My heart rate continues to increase. “So poetic. And, no, you’re not. You wish though.”
“Liar.”
“Usually, your accusations are an admission of truth. How’s the fantasy of me treating you?” I ask.
“Hate to break it to you, but there is no fantasy version of you rummaging around up there. I’m sorry.” He sarcastically places his hand over his heart. “You’re not my type.”
“I don’t believe you,” I whisper and move across the room toward him. I stop in front of his chair. “Tell me I’m not your type to my face.”
He’s so close that I can see the individual lashes framing his blue-green eyes and can smell the soap on his skin underneath the cologne. My heart is beating too fast, and my grip on the sketchbook is white-knuckled. Moving this close to him was such a bad idea.
“Say it.” I reach down and grab his jaw, my fingers pressing into the stubble along his cheek as I gently tilt his head toward me. Before I can pull away, his hand shoots up and wraps around my wrist, holding me in place.
“I’m exactly your type, and you can’t stand that.” I’m shocked by how steady that came out.
His grip tightens. “Why are you doing this?”
Neither of us moves.
“Because I hate you,” I whisper, needing to step away.
His pulse hammers under my palm, and mine is racing to match it. The tension between us has shifted into a moment that feels inevitable. I should pull away from his face, but my thumb continues to slowly brush his cheek. I should put distance between us before we do something we can’t take back.
Instead, I hold his gaze and wait.
“Kendall …” My name comes out rough. “I fucking hate you too.”
His other hand grabs my hip and pulls me forward, and I tumble into his lap with a gasp.
My knees land on either side of his thighs, and my skirt hikes up as I struggle to find my balance.
His hands grip my hips to steady me, and suddenly, I’m straddling him, my chest pressed against his, my face inches from his mouth.
“This is a bad idea,” he says, but his fingers are digging into my hips hard.
“The worst,” I say breathlessly.
“You should stop,” he warns.
“I can’t.”