Chapter 39
KENDALL
Aweek and a half ago, I watched Patterson lift the Stanley Cup over his head in victory.
The Angels did it—he made sure of it. I was in the stands with Addison and Jameson, all of us screaming so loud.
My throat was raw by the final buzzer. I didn’t have a voice for two days after that, but it was totally worth it.
The arena shook with thousands of people as confetti rained down from the ceiling in waves of silver.
When Patterson skated his victory lap with the Cup raised high, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning, he stopped right in front of our section and pointed toward me.
I love you, he mouthed.
I cried so hard that I used my jersey to wipe my eyes.
Stanley Cup champion. All-time league scoring record holder. And somehow, impossibly, mine.
Patterson never fails to impress me, even if he’s not so humble about being the best. I don’t mind it though. After what he’s accomplished, he should brag.
I suck in a deep breath, glancing around the gallery that’s packed with the elite in cocktail attire.
Patterson hasn’t arrived yet, but I know he’ll be here.
Champagne flutes catch the light, and a buzz of conversation fills the vaulted space.
Addison’s subway series covers the left wall, and her raw portraits of strangers feel sacred.
They’re intimate glimpses of lives we’ll never ever know.
And after we confirmed this event, she added two more. I’m in awe of her talent.
My collection takes up the back wall and the entire right side of the room. There are twenty paintings arranged in a progression that starts with hunger and ends with something more intense. Every single painting is a representation of my relationship. No one here knows that though.
I watch a couple stop in front of the fourth piece, the one with veiny, strong hands gripping a headboard, with arms tense. She reads the title of the collection.
“Secret Lover,” she whispers, and her partner nods.
They move to the next canvas. It’s two figures pressed against a kitchen counter, faces in shadow, bodies speaking a language only those who have been so damn desperate for someone can understand.
Her eyes soften. “Pure passion. I love these.”
I step back, giving them a moment with my artwork.
My eyes scan over them, and each brings me back to a different place in time.
The first few are all heat and want, desperate and angry.
One of my favorites is of fingers digging into hip bones, barely showing restraint.
The twelfth painting shows legs tangled in sheets, glowing in the early morning light.
The eighteenth is gentle, eyelashes and forehead kisses.
The final piece, the largest one, shows two figures wrapped around each other in a way that isn’t about sex at all. It represents holding on, staying.
Lust. Love. Trust. The entire arc of falling for Patterson is laid out in color and shadow. And I’m so fucking proud of it.
“You know,” Addison says, appearing beside me with two glasses of champagne.
I cover my heart with my hand. “Fuck.”
“Someone is jumpy,” she says. “I find your paintings interesting.”
I take the glass she offers. “Mmm. That’s a way to explain it.”
“This is your story of falling in love.” She gestures at the collection. “The real one, and, damn, it’s beautiful. But I also realized something else.”
“Yes?” I ask.
“My brother has always been your muse,” she says. “He was how you escaped after your injury. This …” She shakes her head. “You’ve outdone yourself. And I’m so honored to call you my best friend.”
I burst into tears, not able to hold it back anymore.
“No, no, no,” she says, turning to me. “You cannot cry right now because you’re going to make me cry too.”
Now, we’re both doing it.
“Shit,” I whisper, laughing, wiping my tears away. “I’m so happy.”
“Me too. This is what dreams are made of,” she says as Patterson walks into the gallery.
The world stops spinning when our eyes meet, and then he gives me the smile. Then he’s moving across the room toward me, and our lips are crashing together.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“No, no, don’t apologize. I knew you were coming,” I tell him.
Addison squeezes my arm. “I’m so happy for you. Both of you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some mingling to do.”
I look over my shoulder toward the entrance, and that’s when I see a gorgeous woman who radiates old-money charm. “Who is that?”
Patterson laughs. “Princess Delphine Adrian of Montclaire. Her older brother is a friend, but also a total dick.”
“Wait, you know him?”
“The crown prince of Montclaire, heir to the throne, Prince Louis Adrian. Know him?” He rolls his eyes. “I’ve kicked his ass so much at pool; he owes me money.”
I hear my dad’s laughter, and it pulls my and Patterson’s attention away.
“Is he drunk?” Patterson asks.
I shrug. “Maybe? Or maybe he’s just happy?”
“Yeah, right,” we both say and shake our heads.
My dad has gotten better about seeing us together.
The Stanley Cup helped though. When Dad found out that he had beaten the league record for scoring the most in a season, he softened up a lot.
I think he saw how hard Patterson had worked his ass off to make sure our relationship didn’t negatively impact his performance.
“Well, I heard a famous artist who painted in Europe had artwork in this place,” he says, sliding his arm around my waist. “Show me?”
“Sure thing, Pattycakes.”
The crowd has drifted toward Addison’s side of the gallery, leaving my collection temporarily quiet. I take Patterson’s hand and pull him to the best place in the room. The very center.
“Start here,” I tell him. “Then follow it around to the end. It’s a carousel, a story.”
He smiles, kissing my hand, and he really takes his time, studying each painting. A smirk plays on his lips as he slides to the next one, like he’s reliving every single moment too.
By the time he reaches the final piece, the one of two figures holding on to each other, he’s quiet for a long moment.
“Kendall,” he says, his voice rough.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t get it.”
I tilt my head at him and make a face.
“I’m kidding. Fuck,” he says, pulling me into his arms and kissing me. “I love it.”
“Sometimes, I hate you,” I say, laughing. “I was thinking, Dear God, he’s not a dumb athlete, is he?”
He scoffs. “I take offense to that! Take it back.”
“I take it back,” I tell him. “I could never hate you.”
He turns back to the largest piece in the collection, the final one. It’s on a five-foot canvas. It took me two weeks to position the two figures perfectly around one another, like they’re holding on and falling together.
“Wow,” he says, getting choked up.
“Are you getting soft on me, Pattycakes?” I say, tears welling in my eyes.
He pulls me into his arms. “You know what I see when I look at these?” he asks.
“Tell me.”
“You.” He turns to face me. “Your heart.”
“Patterson—”
He grabs my cheeks and studies my face as he speaks low.
“I had a speech planned.” Then he kisses me.
“I practiced in the mirror this morning after that thing we did in the shower. I even asked Jameson if it was too long. He said yes. Then I asked if it was too short, and he told me to stop being annoying.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask with a laugh, feeling like I’ve been dropped in the middle of a random conversation.
He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small velvet box.
“But I’m standing here, looking at you, and none of it feels right, so I’m going off script.” He squeezes my hands. “Because all of it was about the past. How long I’ve wanted you. What we went through to get here. The years we lost.”
I stop breathing as he sinks onto one knee, in the middle of the gallery, surrounded by canvases of us.
The tears start coming, and I can’t stop them this time.
“But all I can think about is how you’re the first person I want to tell when something good happens. I look for you in every room I walk into, and when I find you, the entire world melts away.” His voice is raw. “I didn’t know it could be like this. I can’t remember what life was like before you.”
“Patterson,” I whisper as he grabs my hand.
“You’re extraordinary, Kendall. You take my breath away every single time I look at you.
” He takes a shaky breath. “I have never imagined my future with anyone else. Not once. When I think about growing old, you’re there.
When I think about what my life looks like in ten years, twenty years, fifty years, you’re in every single version of it.
You’re the love of my life, and I knew it the first time our eyes met. ”
He holds the ring up toward me, the diamond catching the light.
“I want everything with you, Kendall. Every ordinary, extraordinary day for the rest of my life. What do you say, Ken Doll? Will you marry me? And let me spend forever with you?” His voice breaks on the last words.
I can’t speak as I pull him up by his jacket and crash my lips against his because yes is the only word in my head.
“Yes. A million times yes.”
“Thank you,” he says against my mouth, laughing. “I love you.”
“I love you.” I kiss him again.
We’re laughing and crying and shaking as he slides the ring onto my finger. It fits perfectly. He pulls back and wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumbs.
“You’re going to be my wifey.” He leans in and whispers in my ear, “And that’s the greatest accomplishment of my life.”
“I’m dreaming,” I whisper.
“No,” he says against my lips. “You’re wide awake, babe.”
Applause breaks out around us, and that’s when I realize we’ve drawn a crowd. I bury my face in his chest, overwhelmed. He’s right; the world does disappear when we’re close.
Addison is at the edge of the crowd, with her hand pressed to her chest. Tears stream down her face, and she doesn’t rush over or make a scene. She stands there, watching us with the proudest smile I’ve ever seen.
When our eyes meet, she mouths, I love you.
I say it back.
My parents push through the crowd together. Mom is already crying, and Dad’s mustache is twitching the way it does when he’s fighting emotion.
“Took you long enough,” Dad says to Patterson.
“Wanted to get it right, Coach.”
“You did,” he says.
Mom pulls me into a hug so tight that I can barely breathe. “It’s right this time,” she whispers against my hair. “I’m so happy for you.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
When she releases me, Dad clears his throat and extends his hand to Patterson. “Welcome to the family, son.”
“Son?” Patterson takes it. “Can I call you Dad now?”
“Only outside of the facility,” he says, giving him an eye.
Patterson’s parents appear next. His mom wraps me in a hug and whispers how thrilled she is to officially call me her daughter.
His dad claps Patterson on the shoulder with a simple, “Proud of you.”
Jameson pulls Patterson into a hug. “You could’ve told me it was tonight.”
“And miss that look on your face?”
“I’ve had best-man notes ready for weeks. Would’ve been nice to know when to pull them out,” he says, and it’s real happiness on both of their faces.
“Let’s meet up next week,” Patterson tells him.
Addison makes her way over and hugs me tight. “Maid of honor?”
“Uh, yes. Who else would it be?”
The rest of the night blurs into congratulations and champagne. At some point, a collector approaches me about purchasing one of my pieces.
“I’m sorry,” the gallery assistant tells her. “The entire Secret Lover collection has been sold.”
I turn to Patterson. “All of them? Already?”
“Congratulations,” he says. “That’s amazing.”
I move to the gallery assistant. “They sold?”
“Yes,” she says. “The offer was five million.”
“What?” I ask, confused. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” she says, moving to help another guest.
I go back to Patterson with my mouth parted. “Someone bought my paintings for that ridiculous price.”
He smiles widely.
“Patterson.”
“Hmm?”
“Was it you?” I recently learned he was the one who purchased my auction paintings.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “Do you really think I was letting those go? I’d have paid double for all of it. Sorry, Ken Doll. I’m your biggest fan, and I will be your biggest collector. Get used to it. If someone wants your artwork, they’d better have billions. I want to own it all.”
I shake my head at him and kiss him hard.
“There are hundreds of paintings in Europe, Patterson.”
“I’m aware. Do you know how hard it’s been to track them down?” he asks. “I might have to retire from hockey at this rate.”
“Wait, you’re searching for my artwork?”
“Hell, yes, I am. I’m greedy,” he tells me, and I’m too giddy for my own good.
He pulls me into his arms and dances with me in the middle of the gallery. People walk around us as we sway to the classical music overhead.
“You’re ridiculous,” I tell him with a laugh.
“You fucking love it,” he says, spinning me.
“I do. So, so much.”
He leans in and whispers in my ear, “Anywhere we can christen?”
“You are so bad.” I bite my lip. “But I thought you’d never ask.”
“Lead the damn way,” he says.
We take the long hallway that leads to a small office. We step inside, and I lock the door. He’s staring at me with a sparkle in his eyes.
“What?” I ask, smiling up at him.
“Nothing.” He’s admiring me like I’m something precious. “I want to remember this. Right now. This exact moment.”
I step closer. “Yeah?”
“This is where it all starts.” He slides his mouth against mine. It’s hot, passionate, and needy. “Everything before got us here. But this, right now, you and me? This is our real beginning.”
I look up at him and grin.
“I love this life with you,” I whisper against his mouth, yanking at his belt. “Now, pretty please fuck your fiancée.”
“Mmm,” he says, growling against my throat. “Soon-to-be Kendall Cross. Love the sound of that.”
“Me too,” I whisper with a gasp as his hand slides into my panties.
We started this in secret, with stolen moments and locked doors, pretending this wasn’t what we wanted. But the truth is, we don’t get to choose who we love. Our hearts choose for us. And I’m so damn glad it picked him.
This is where our story really begins.