Chapter 34
KENDALL
Three days ago, my father caught Patterson and me.
Now I’m folding my clothes and placing them into Patterson’s dresser while he watches me from the bed with the sheets pooled around his waist. In this light, he looks like a sculpture.
I’m still getting used to being in his space—our space, now that we live together.
“Take the entire drawer, babe,” he says.
“Maybe I will.”
“Wait.” He tilts his head. “Are those red lace thongs?”
“Maybe.”
“Mmm. Please promise you’ll model those for me soon.”
“Oh, absolutely happening. As long as you promise to remove them.”
“Done deal.”
My hands are doing the motions, folding and stacking and organizing, but my brain is glitching out.
Randomly, I catch a glimpse of Central Park through the windows and forget where I am.
His penthouse drips luxury with its marble countertops and a living room bigger than any apartment I’ve ever lived in.
Everything is sleek and masculine with the dark wood and leather.
This morning, Patterson cooked me breakfast, and then we hung one of my larger abstract paintings above the mantel.
He insisted, then stood back and held me in his arms.
“This is the first time this place has felt like home,” he says, pulling back my attention as if he can read my mind.
I walk over to him and sit on the edge of the bed. “Why did you buy this place?”
He laughs. “Because it was the cool thing to do. Everyone who’s anyone lives in The Park.”
“Billionaires live here, Patterson,” I say, like he doesn’t know.
He’s resting against the headboard and pulls me closer to him. “Babe, I am a billionaire.”
My eyes widen, and I scoot back to look up at him. “Wait, what?”
“Don’t act so shocked, Ken Doll.”
“I–I …”
He laughs like I said something ridiculous. “Babe, my dad was a professional athlete. My parents set up trust funds for each of us before we could walk.”
“So, you …” I trail off, looking around the penthouse.
He literally lives in one of the most expensive buildings in the city.
“Seem normal?” He grins. “Is it because I don’t have a yacht?”
I’m still processing this. “So, the hockey contracts, the endorsements …”
“Not even needed, but all invested. Dyson handles my portfolio.” He shrugs like we’re talking about the weather. “I have more money than you could spend in a lifetime.”
I stare at him.
“Why didn’t Jameson tell me this?” I ask.
“Because he knew you didn’t care,” he says. “None of the Crosses are blasting our financial information to the world. Either you know, or you don’t, and most don’t. It’s better that way.”
“You play because you love the game,” I whisper, and I don’t know why I never realized that it was never about anything else.
“And for legacy,” he adds. “Many of these GMs and coaches try to use money as a motivator for players. That tactic has never worked for me. It doesn’t make me happy. I already have enough.”
He could’ve walked away at any point, could’ve lived off his investments and his trust fund, but instead, he shows up every single day, risking injury.
He tips my chin up so I’m looking at him. “Hockey is what I do, babe. It’s not who I am and doesn’t define me. And the older I get, the more I notice how money can’t buy the things I really want.”
“Like?” I ask.
“Friendship. Love. Time. You.”
My throat tightens, and I have to look away before I start crying again because I’ve done enough of that this week.
He pulls me against his chest, and we stay like that, holding each other, hiding from the world outside. But my phone keeps lighting up on the nightstand with texts that I’m not ready to answer. I’m sure it’s my mother or Addison.
“We should go out,” Patterson says.
I lift my head. “Out? Like out in public?”
“Yes, out into the world. You and me,” he says. “How about dinner?”
My brows lift. “Are you asking me on a date, Patterson Cross?”
He pulls me into his arms. “Fuck yes, I am.”
Two hours later, I’m wearing a cocktail dress I usually save for galas, and Patterson is holding my hand as we walk into a fancy Italian restaurant in the West Village.
The hostess recognizes him, but she’s professional about it, leading us to a corner booth with exposed brick walls. Candles flicker on the table.
“Wow, this place is a hidden gem,” I say, sliding into the booth across from him. “Romantic.”
“The type of place you bring a pretty girl,” he says, winking. “Impressed yet?”
“Maybe,” I say, biting my bottom lip.
He reaches across the table and laces his fingers through mine. “Damn, you’re so beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I tell him as a waiter appears.
Patterson orders a bottle of wine without looking at the menu. When we’re alone again, I catch myself smiling.
“What?” he asks.
“Nothing. This is … nice. I needed this,” I admit.
“Me too.”
The wine arrives, and Patterson orders for me because the menu isn’t in English.
For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe.
We talk about silly things, and it’s easy.
He tells me about the rookie hazing rituals that happened in his first year with the Angels.
I share the story of how I accidentally insulted a gallery owner in Paris because my French was terrible.
He genuinely laughs, and I love the way it sounds.
When the pasta arrives, it’s fantastic. The white sauce is rich and creamy with fresh basil and something garlicky.
“Well?” he asks.
“This is incredible.”
“Best-kept secret in the city.”
I grin. “Kinda like us?”
“Not anymore, babe.”
“Speaking of,” I say, twirling angel hair pasta around my fork, “should we tell your parents? Officially, I mean.”
“Already done.”
I nearly choke. “What?”
“I called my mom a few days ago. Figured she and my dad should hear it from me before the tabloids ran with the story.”
This makes me happy. I love his family so damn much.
“My mom cried.” He takes a sip of wine. “She said she always knew you’d be a part of the family somehow.”
“What prompted her to say that?” I ask.
“I told her you were the one,” he says nonchalantly.
I set down my fork. “Patterson.”
“It’s the truth.” He smirks.
I smile so wide that it nearly hurts. “Don’t ever change.”
“Don’t plan on it,” he says.
We’re halfway through the bottle when his phone buzzes. He glances at it, then silences it without looking at who called.
“Popular tonight,” I say.
“Always.” He takes another bite of pasta. “Callan’s been texting me nonstop about tomorrow’s game. Hunter sent me a video of himself doing a backflip on the ice, which had nothing to do with anything. Smiley wants to know if I’m dead.”
“Did you tell them what’s going on?”
“They know.” He shrugs. “Your dad made a statement. Callan told them the truth.”
I watch him across the candlelight and think about how different this feels.
“You’re staring,” he says without looking up from his plate.
“Can’t help it.”
“Dangerous game you’re playing, Ken Doll,” he says. “We won’t make it to dessert if you keep eye-fucking me like that.”
“Maybe you’re the only dessert I want.”
He grins. “Even though you’ve been eyeing the tiramisu that couple is eating?”
“It looks amazing though, doesn’t it?”
As our empty plates are slid off the table, Patterson speaks up, not taking his eyes off me. “We’ll take a tiramisu and two espressos.”
The server nods and disappears.
Patterson joins me on my side of the booth. His hand finds my thigh under the table, and his palm is warm through the thin fabric of my dress. When his fingers trace lazy circles on my skin, I can barely stay focused.
“You’re trouble,” I tell him.
“And for some reason, you enjoy it.”
“Guilty,” I say with a whisper. “When you touch me, my entire body lights on fire.”
His hand slides higher. “Oh, really?”
I catch his wrist before he can go any further. “Behave.”
“Never.”
The challenge in his voice sends a thrill through me.
“We’re secluded in a corner booth with a tablecloth. No one can see us,” he says in his deep timbre.
“Pattycakes,” I say in a hushed tone.
“Ken Doll.” He mimics me perfectly, then laughs when I struggle for air.
I look around the room and see that no one is paying attention to us. They’re all too busy in their own little worlds.
“Just because we’re out in the open doesn’t mean we can’t sneak around,” he says into my ear. “Relax.”
His fingers slide beneath the hem of my dress, and I grip the edge of the table. He’s watching me like he’s memorizing every hitch in my breathing, and he’s enjoying this way too much. Fuck, I am, too, and I have to bite down on my lip to keep from making a sound.
I should stop him. But I don’t. I don’t want to.
“Spread your legs a little wider for me,” he murmurs against my ear, and the command in his voice makes me come alive.
Before I can overthink it, I do it, shifting just enough. His fingers peel the thin lace to the side.
“I hate you,” I breathe, but we both know it’s a lie.
“Hate you too,” he says, sliding his finger down my slit.
I nearly choke on nothing.
“But, damn, you’re soaked.”
“I know,” I say in a hushed tone.
“All this from a little pasta and candlelight?”
“From you looking at me all night like you want to devour me.”
“Oh, I do.”
He pushes two fingers inside me, and I nearly see stars.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
“Don’t give yourself away,” he says low, his scruff tickling against my neck.
The waiter appears at the edge of the booth with our tiramisu, and I freeze, but Patterson doesn’t move. He grins up at the server nonchalantly while his fingers curl inside me.
“Thanks,” Patterson says, completely casual.
“Enjoy.”
The waiter sets down the dessert and walks away, and I exhale so hard that I’m surprised I don’t pass out.
“You love to push the limit,” I say.
“So do you.” He circles my clit, and I have to disguise my gasp as a cough. “Eat your dessert, babe.”
I hold back a moan as he picks up a fork with his free hand and scoops up a bite of tiramisu, holding it to my lips.
“Open wider for me.”