Chapter 14
KENDALL
Iwatched Patterson destroy Boston last night from the third row behind the penalty box with my camera pressed to my face like a shield.
My body kept remembering Tuesday in that hallway when his thigh was pressed between mine.
His hot mouth and lips brushed against the shell of my ear, and I swear he inhaled my hair.
When he walked away, it left me shaking with want.
Last night, he scored two goals and had one assist. The crowd screamed his name while I pretended to be a professional photographer and not a woman who’d been wet for him for twelve straight days.
Every fantasy I have involves him.
After the final horn, I took a rideshare home and stared at my phone for twenty minutes. I opened his contact that said “Chef” and selected the cake emoji, the cursor blinking right after it. But then I remembered he wanted me to beg, and I’d rather die than give him that satisfaction.
I don’t want games. I want him buried deep inside me until my vision blurs. Once that happens, I’ll be able to walk away and put this … obsession to rest.
But now it’s Saturday morning, and I’m home, staring at the photos from last night, trying to focus on composition and lighting instead of the way Patterson’s jersey stretches across his shoulders.
The action shots are good, maybe even great, and the owner will be thrilled with the material I’m gathering. I surely am.
My phone rings, and I grab it without checking the screen, half hoping it’s him even though I know he won’t call because that would mean he broke first.
“Hello?”
“Hey, stranger,” a familiar voice says in a warm, easy tone. “Been a while.”
I glance down at the number, realizing the area code. Boston. I nearly drop the phone. “Jamie?”
“The one and only.” I hear his smile and almost imagine the one he used to reserve for me. “Hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
“No, I’m …” I look around at the canvases stacked against every wall and the paint supplies scattered across my dining table. Then I see the finished portrait of Patterson still on the easel, a masterpiece. “Working. What are you up to?”
“Always working. It’s almost like nothing has changed.” He laughs, and it’s such a familiar sound.
I always imagined what I’d say to him the next time we spoke again.
“It’s been over five years, Jamie. Of course I’ve changed,” I say, but realize I’m older, more jaded to life.
“I’m intrigued,” he says, giving me all his charm. “I called you and left a message a few weeks ago.”
“Did you?” I play dumb. “Sorry, I’ve been occupied.”
“Mmm. Tell me, Kendall, are you seeing anyone?” he asks.
I chuckle. “Jamie, you know I don’t do second chances, so don’t try it.”
“Well, see, now I’m going to have to.”
My heart races because I cannot be put in this position, between the two of them … again.
“I’ll be in the city soon. I’d love to see you and catch up. Like you said, you’ve changed. I’ve changed. I take less for granted these days. One dinner, for old times’ sake.”
I lick my lips and exhale. Then I remember what Patterson said about going on dates.
“Dinner, for old times’ sake,” I repeat.
This makes Jameson chuckle. “Is it weird? I know we haven’t really talked since …” He trails off. “Well, since.”
Since the argument where he ended our engagement and shattered my entire world. I spent months believing I’d lost the love of my life, crying into Addison’s shoulder while she told me I deserved better. I packed everything I owned and went to Europe to escape the city that held memories of us.
I’d thought Jameson was it for me.
I thought we had the type of love that people wrote songs about.
But looking back now, I see what I didn’t see then.
He was right. There was a spark missing in our relationship.
Underneath the grief of losing that relationship sat something else. Recognition. Relief? Because part of me had always known we were forcing something that didn’t quite fit. Even though we should have been great together, our relationship felt wrong.
Now, I know I wanted Jameson to be someone he wasn’t. I wanted more edge, more fire and passion, more of that consuming intensity that made me feel alive and desired. I wanted him to look at me the way his brother looked at me across crowded rooms—with heat and hunger and barely contained want.
I wanted Patterson and could never have him.
“It’s dinner. I promise you won’t regret it. And don’t worry; I’ll be on my very best behavior. Come on,” he begs with a chuckle.
“Okay, okay, fine,” I tell him.
“Yeah?” he asks with relief in his voice that sounds genuine. “You won’t regret it. I’ve missed you, Ken Doll.”
“Do not call me that,” I tell him. “That nickname you gave me died with our relationship.”
“I’ve really missed talking to you.” His voice drops lower. “You were my best friend.”
“Honestly, losing our friendship was the hardest thing to get over,” I say.
We were incredible friends and genuinely enjoyed spending time together, even if the spark wasn’t always present. Jameson made me feel safe and never pushed me outside of my comfort zone. Part of me craved chaos instead of calm.
We talk for another fifteen minutes about nothing important. He mentions his nonprofit work in Boston, and I briefly chat about my commission for the Angels. And we even discuss the weather, for fuck’s sake. When we hang up, I sit on my couch and wait for something to hit me.
Nostalgia. Longing. Regret. Anything.
Instead, I feel nothing, completely indifferent, like I had a conversation with a stranger. I thought he was the love of my life, my future, and talking to him changed nothing.
Laughter bursts out of me because this is proof that I’m over him, completely.
Exactly seven hours later, Addison drags me to a wine bar in the West Village that’s trying too hard with its exposed brick, Edison bulbs, and a chalkboard menu with things I can’t pronounce.
She orders for both of us because she knows I’ll point at something random and hope for the best, even though I usually strike out.
“You’ve been weird lately,” she says after the server leaves. “Distant. Distracted. What’s going on?”
“Super busy with the commission.” I trace my finger along my glass. “Trying to stay ahead of schedule.”
“Mm-hmm.” She doesn’t believe me. “And the bags under your eyes? The fact that you’ve checked your phone six times since we sat down?”
“I’m expecting an email from the owner about the charity auction,” I tell her. It’s not a lie.
“On a Saturday night?”
“He’s dedicated.”
Addison studies me with those blue eyes that see too much. I hate how she can read me better than anyone, which is exactly why I have to be careful.
“You know what you need?” She leans back in her chair with a knowing look. “A good romp.”
I gulp down my wine. “Excuse me?”
“I’m serious. You’re wound tighter than I’ve ever seen you, and I’ve known you for years.” She swirls her glass like she’s delivering life-changing wisdom. “When’s the last time you got laid?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“That long, huh?” She whistles low. “Keke, no wonder you look like you’re about to snap. Not getting laid will eat you alive.”
“Who says I’m not?”
“Please. I can practically see the tension radiating off you.” She takes a long sip. “You know how I complete large commissions? I find someone to burn off the stress with. The best ideas I’ve ever had come to me right after incredible, mind-blowing sex.”
I think about Patterson’s hands on my hips, his thigh between mine, his voice in my ear, telling me to beg. My face heats, and I pray she doesn’t notice.
“You’ve mentioned this before,” I manage to get out before I drink more wine. Guess I’m getting drunk tonight.
“Yeah, I mention it all the time because it’s true.
I always have a fling during a big project.
Keeps me loose, keeps the creative energy flowing.
” She shrugs like this is the most obvious thing in the world.
“You should try it. Find some hot stranger, fuck his brains out, and I guarantee your paintings and mind will be better for it.”
The irony isn’t lost on me because I did find someone, and now I’m two weeks into a standoff that’s slowly killing my sanity.
“I’ll take your word for it,” I say dryly. “Men are a distraction.”
“You only need them for one thing. Here, I’ll give you some pointers. One: find a fling. Two: fuck each other’s brains out. Three: never stay the night, no matter what.”
“Fuck and run?” I roll my eyes at her.
“Yes, but make him come to you. After you orgasm, kick him out and enjoy serenity.”
I laugh.
“Fine, fine. You have no idea what you’re missing.” She waves her hand dismissively and watches a woman walk toward the bathroom. “Oh, that’s one of the women Patterson went on a date with last week. Claudia, I think.”
I ask for a refill. “I really don’t keep track of your brother’s love life. Not enough paper.”
“Right? He’s dated nine different women in the past three weeks.
TMZ is having a field day.” She pulls out her phone and scrolls through headlines I’ve already memorized.
“This one’s my favorite. ‘Angels Star Patterson Cross Spotted with Mystery Blonde at Exclusive Manhattan Club.’ She’s a Victoria’s Secret model. How does he snag them?”
“We know it’s not his charm.”
She shrugs. “I wish someone could explain it to me.”
I wish I could.
“Yeah, same. I surely don’t see it. He’s a prick.” I force myself to stay casual, even though my blood is boiling.
She smirks. “Maybe that’s why he’s been playing so well lately. Spending all that post-sex energy on winning.”
I nearly choke on the sip I was taking.
Addison tilts her head.
“Oh, before I forget to tell you, Jamie called me today,” I say, changing the subject. If anything will get the discussion off Patterson, it’s this.
“Yeah?” she asks. “He did mention you to me the other day. It’s almost like he regrets how things ended between you two. I think he needs to know you forgive him.”
“I kinda got that vibe too. He asked me to dinner when he’s in town again.”
Addison’s face lights up. “Yeah? What did you say?”
“I said yes.”
“Oh my God.” She grabs my hand across the table. “Are you going to give him a second chance?”
“No. You know I don’t believe in them,” I remind her.
“Okay, tell me this … would you sleep with him? I mean, if he’s in town, maybe you can kill two birds with one stone.”
“Um, absolutely not.”
“Oh, did you ever find a date to join you for that award ceremony where your dad is being honored?” she asks.
“Shit,” I whisper, opening my calendar. “I forgot about that.”
“What if you asked Jamie to be your date?” she suggests. “I’m sure he’d love to attend that.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I explain. “I might go solo so I can blend in and sneak out. I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll text him and see if he’s available.” Addison is already pulling out her phone.
“Addy, wait—”
“Done.” She grins.
Seconds later, Addison unlocks her phone and sends a text.
Addison
Are you available the weekend of the leagues seasonal awards?
Jameson
Actually, yeah. Why?
I glance at her. “What are you going to say?”
“Do it,” she whispers with a grin. “See if there is anything left between you so you can really move on.”
After four glasses of wine, I take a rideshare home. I stand in my apartment, surrounded by finished paintings, and stare at the portrait of Patterson on my easel. His eyes stare back at me, full of challenge and heat, and I wonder if he knows what’s coming.
Addison’s voice echoes in my head. “You know what you need? A good romp.”
I hate that she’s right.
I pick up my phone and type a message to Chef. The cursor blinks at me.
He wants me to beg. He wants me desperate and needy, crawling to him on my knees, because I can’t take the silence anymore.
Maybe I am desperate. Maybe fourteen days of cold showers and sleepless nights have broken something inside me. Maybe I’m tired of pretending I have any control over what this man does to me.
I find an emoji.
Kendall
My thumb hovers over Send for three full breaths.
Then I hit it.
The message delivers, and I stare at the screen, waiting for the three dots to appear, waiting for him to respond with something that will make me regret breaking first.
Nothing.
One minute passes. Then two. I set the phone face down on my coffee table and force myself to walk away, and I open a bottle of wine.
I’ve barely removed the cork when it rings.
Not a text. A call.
I grab it so fast that I nearly knock over my easel. Chef flashes on the screen, and my heart slams against my ribs.
“Hello?”
“Address.” His voice is low and rough, like he’s been grinding his teeth for the past two minutes.
“What?”
“Your address, Ken Doll. Now.”
I rattle it off without thinking; the numbers spilling out of my mouth before my brain can catch up. There’s a long pause, and I can hear him breathing on the other end, can practically feel the tension radiating through the phone.
“Patterson—”
He hangs up.
I stand in my apartment with my phone pressed to my ear, listening to dead air while my entire body vibrates with anticipation. He didn’t say he was coming. He didn’t say when. He demanded my address and hung up like I wasn’t worth another second of conversation.
I should be furious.
Instead, I’m already walking toward my bedroom to change, pulse racing, skin flushed. Every nerve ending is lit up with the knowledge that Patterson Cross is on his way.
And if he wants me to beg? I will.