Chapter 12 #2
I shove a large bite into my mouth and chew aggressively, maintaining eye contact with my father until he shakes his head and returns to his conversation with Patterson.
Under the table, something brushes against my ankle, and I go rigid. Patterson’s expression doesn’t change as he responds to a question about the upcoming game, but his foot traces up my calf. The touch is light, almost casual, and it sends sparks shooting up my leg.
That’s when I decide to kick him. Hard. He’s walking the line in front of my father like this is a game. It’s not.
Patterson doesn’t flinch, but I see his jaw flex. When his eyes meet mine across the table, they’re dark with warning.
Two can play this game, his expression says.
Try me, I respond with an eyebrow raise.
“So, Patterson,” Mom says, oblivious to the silent argument happening across the dining table, “are you seeing anyone? A handsome young man like you must have women lining up.”
I choke on my wine.
“Mom,” I manage between coughs, “Patterson has a different woman every week. Leave him alone.”
She waves her hand at me dismissively.
Patterson’s smile is razor-edged when he glances at me. “No one serious at the moment. Dating and keeping my options open. But my real focus is on the season.”
“Smart,” Dad says approvingly. “Relationships are a distraction. I always tell my players to keep their heads in the game.”
“You know I play to win every game I commit to.” Patterson takes a slow sip of water, and I watch his throat work as he swallows.
That sounds like a warning to me. “Relationships are no different. I’ve never met anyone worth committing to.
Everyone has been casual,” he says, like he’s telling me I’m the same as every other woman he’s ever been with.
I don’t know why my heart sinks, but it weirdly does.
“What about you, sweetheart?” Mom turns her attention to me.
I close my eyes, wishing I could make the floor open up and swallow me whole.
“No. I’m not seeing anyone.”
“Not even Damien? The one who—”
“No, Mom,” I cut her off before she can embarrass me further. “I’m focused on the commissions for the team. That’s it. I don’t have time to entertain men, so I’m not. I promised Addison I would try to have fun this year. New year, new me. It’s part of my resolutions. Do things that scare me.”
Direct hit back to him.
“You work too hard.” She sighs.
If she only knew.
Patterson’s foot slides higher, past my ankle to my calf, and I slam my knee into the underside of the table. The dishes rattle. Everyone looks at me like I’ve grown a third head.
“Sorry.” I force a tight smile. “Leg cramp.”
Dad frowns. “You should stretch more, sweetheart. You know how important mobility is.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The rest of the meal passes in a blur of small talk and barely concealed hostility.
Every time Patterson opens his mouth to charm my parents, I want to scream.
Every time his foot brushes against me under the table, I imagine wrapping my hands around his throat.
For violence or something else, I’m not entirely sure anymore.
Mom serves apple pie for dessert, and Patterson accepts a slice with gratitude. I watch him eat, hating the way his lips close around the fork, hating that my body responds to every little detail like I’ve been programmed specifically for him.
“Incredible,” he tells my mother. “You’ve outdone yourself, Mrs. Hart.”
“Please, call me Diana.” She’s blushing like a schoolgirl. “And thank you. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”
“Family recipes are the best kind.”
Mom tilts her head, studying Patterson with a soft expression that makes my stomach clench. “You know, you and Jameson are so much alike. The manners, the charm. I can barely tell you apart. If you told me you did a switcheroo, I’d believe you.”
I nearly choke on my wine for the second time tonight. “They’re nothing alike.”
“Kendall,” she warns.
“I’m serious, Mom. They’re completely different.”
“They’re both polite. Well-mannered. Of course, handsome with charm.” She gestures toward Patterson like he’s Exhibit A. “I see no difference.”
“Yeah, the difference is, Jamie loved me.” The words come out harsh, and the table goes quiet. I force myself to shrug as if it doesn’t matter, but maybe that’s been my issue all along. I’m not easy to love. I clear my throat, realizing how awkward it got. “Patterson is literally the evil twin.”
Patterson’s expression doesn’t change, but his eyes narrow. “That’s funny, considering when we were kids, everyone always said Jameson was the evil twin. Maybe you’re the one who has it backward,” he says nonchalantly. “Unless you’re a villain too.”
I tilt my head at him, trying to understand.
Mom chuckles.
I set down my fork with a clatter. “I should get going. Have a really early morning tomorrow and lots of work to do.”
“Leaving already?” Mom looks disappointed.
“I’ve been here for two hours.”
“Stay for coffee at least.”
“I really can’t—”
“Actually,” Patterson interrupts, and something in his tone makes me pause, “I was hoping to see more of the house before I head out. The architecture is remarkable. You don’t find craftsmanship like this anymore.”
Dad perks up. “It was built in 1920. Still had the original hardwood throughout, crown molding, the works. We’ve spent years restoring it.”
“It shows.” Patterson runs his hand along the dining room chair rail with what appears to be genuine appreciation. “The attention to detail is incredible.”
“Kendall, you should give him a tour.” Dad says it like a command, not a request. “Show him the upstairs, along with the study that has the original built-in bookshelves. I think he’d appreciate it.”
Every muscle in my body locks. “I’m sure Patterson needs to get back to the city.”
“I’ve got time.” His smile is pleasant, but his eyes are a challenge. “I’d love to see more.”
“There you go.” Dad stands, collecting plates. “Your mother and I will clean up. Go show him around. Maybe you should talk this bullshit out privately.”
I open my mouth to argue, but Mom is already shooing us out of the dining room with promises to pack leftovers. Patterson falls into step beside me, close enough that his arm brushes mine, and the contact feels like a brand.
“After you,” he murmurs.
I lead him toward the staircase without a word, painfully aware of his presence behind me as we climb. The stairs creak under our weight, and it sounds like a scream. Soon, we’re away from my parents until all that’s left is the tension nearly strangling me with each step.
“That was interesting,” he says.
“Don’t talk to me.” I reach the top of the stairs and gesture down the hallway. “Study’s on the left. Original bookshelves. Very impressive. Tour over.”
Patterson doesn’t move toward the study. Instead, he steps closer to me, and my back hits the wall beside a framed photo of my twelve-year-old self in a skating costume.
“What the hell are you doing?” I whisper.
“What does it look like?”
“My parents are downstairs.”
“Then you’d better be real fucking quiet.”
His hand finds my hip, and soon he’s pinning my wrist to the wall beside my head. We’re breathing hard, glaring at each other in the dim hallway, and the hatred between us feels like a living thing.
“I’m not doing this here,” I whisper.
“Then stop looking at me like you want to kill me and fuck me at the same time.”
“I do want to kill you.”
“And the other part?”
I don’t answer, but my silence says everything.
He releases my wrist and steps back, and the loss of contact leaves me cold. “Show me the rest of the house.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told.” He nods toward a door at the end of the hall. “What’s that room?”
“Guest room.”
His expression darkens as he waits for me to make a move.
I should say no. I should march back downstairs, say goodbye to my parents, drive home, and pretend this night never happened. But Patterson is already walking toward the door, and my feet follow before my brain can override them.
The room doesn’t look like it did when I lived here. The walls are now sage instead of pale pink. A queen bed with a gray comforter sits in the middle of the room instead of my twin bunk beds with the butterfly sheets. Traces of me remain though.
My skating trophies line the shelf by the window, gold and silver figures frozen mid-spin. Photos from competitions cover one wall, and it’s set up like a shrine to the career that ended too soon. A stuffed bear I won at Coney Island sits on the dresser, nearly bare from years of being loved.
Patterson moves through the room, examining each piece of my history like he’s cataloging it for later. He stops in front of the trophy shelf, and I watch him take in memories of who I used to be.
“State champion,” he reads from one of the plaques. “Three years running.”
“Ancient history.”
“You must’ve been good.”
“I was good enough.”
He turns to face me, and the distance between us disappears. “You were going to the Olympics.”
“But I didn’t.” I meet his stare without flinching. “Things change, Patterson. Sometimes, we think we want certain things in life, but when we get close to having them, it’s obvious it’s the wrong path.”
“Yeah.” He takes another step, and now he’s close enough that I can see the individual flecks of green in his blue eyes. “Like you almost marrying Jamie?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my eyes fluttering closed.
I should back away. The door is wide open. This is the stupidest possible place to do anything, and yet my body refuses. I’m the prey he’s been stalking for years, and I want to surrender.
His mouth crashes into mine, and there’s nothing soft about it. This kiss is a war, teeth and tongue. It’s anger that burns hot. I grab his sweater and yank him closer, needing more friction, more contact, more of him, hoping it will stop this craving.
He pushes me backward until my spine hits the wall beside my old trophies, and I hear one of them wobble on the shelf. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, and I hope they do because I want evidence that this is real.
“I fucking hate what you do to me.” I breathe against his mouth.
“Good.” He bites my bottom lip, and I gasp. “Hate me harder.”
His thigh presses between mine, and I grind against it shamelessly, chasing the friction.
The absurdity of the situation should kill the mood, but instead, it amplifies everything.
I’m making out with Patterson Cross in my old bedroom while my parents clean up dinner downstairs, and I’ve never been more turned on in my life.
His mouth drags down my neck, and I tip my head back, giving him access even though I know he’ll leave a mark. His teeth scrape against my pulse point, and I dig my nails into his shoulders, hard enough to hurt through the cashmere.
“You two not destroying one another?” My dad’s voice echoes from downstairs.
We freeze.
Patterson’s chest heaves against mine, his breath hot on my neck. I can feel how hard he is against my thigh, and every instinct screams at me to ignore my father and keep going.
“Fine!” I call back. “Just talking!”
“Don’t forget the crown molding in the hallway! Original to the house!”
“I won’t!”
Silence.
Patterson pulls back slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. His lips are swollen, and his hair is wrecked from my fingers. He looks like exactly what he is—a man who was thirty seconds from hate-fucking me against a wall.
“You want me to fuck you.” He says it matter-of-factly, like there’s no question about it.
“Obviously,” I breathe out—because he’s right.
Neither of us moves.
“We’re done,” he says.
“No. We’re not.”
He moves toward me, capturing my lips. “When I finally have you, I want you dripping wet, Ken Doll. I agreed to this, but you’re still doing it on my terms.”
“You’re not playing fair,” I whisper.
He places his hand between my legs, and my entire body shudders as he adds pressure. “Remember, this belongs to me. You don’t get to touch it either.”
I gasp, “What?”
“Every orgasm is mine, babe. Every fucking one.”
“Meet me tonight then.”
“Can’t.” He shakes his head, then smirks. “You’re so damn eager.”
“Sexually frustrated.” I hold his stare. “There’s a difference.”
A dark chuckle escapes him. “You sure you want this?”
I reach forward and palm his rock-hard cock in his slacks. “We both do.”
His breath catches, and his eyes go black. He grabs my wrist and pulls my hand away before I can do any real damage.
“Mmm,” he says, looking me from top to bottom. “Might want to fix yourself. You look horny.”
He moves toward the door.
“Pattycakes, tell me something,” I say, and he turns to meet my eyes. “Was Jameson really the evil twin?”
He studies me. “Yes. And he still is. Now, I have to get going. I’ve got a date.”
The words catch me off guard. My smile feels frozen on my face.
“Really?”
I know what we agreed to. He won’t sleep with her, whoever she is. But we also established that if either of us found someone worth pursuing, this would end. Why am I already concerned that this thing between us could be over before it really begins? I push that thought away.
“Try not to be too jealous, Kendall.”
My name in his mouth sounds like a curse and a promise, wrapped into one.
“Jealous? Please,” I mutter, feeling my heart racing.
He disappears down the hallway, and a minute later, I hear him saying goodbye to my parents, thanking my mother for dinner, promising my father he’ll review the game film before practice tomorrow. The front door opens and closes. Seconds later, the engine of the Range Rover starts in the driveway.
I’m left pressing my thighs together, trying to remember how to breathe.
I’m playing with fire.
I straighten my clothes and smooth my hair before going downstairs to tell my parents bye. I might not survive Patterson, even if he’s responsible for making me feel alive.