Real Regrets (Kensingtons Book 2)

I shouldn’t be here.

I should be reading through the latest contract the Los Angeles Titans sent over. Since my father used to be involved with the organization, he passes off anything related to that team to other employees. And if I wasn’t reviewing that contract before the legal team takes a look, there are dozens of other things I should be doing, instead of sitting outside the automatic doors of Los Angeles’ international airport.

Waiting for my husband.

I’m under no illusions about why Oliver changed his mind about coming here. He has a lot more to lose in our divorce. Since we didn’t sign a prenup, I could fight him for a massive amount of money. And likely win.

Maybe he took me choosing an attorney as a warning.

Maybe he thinks this favor will keep me amenable.

He’s coming to protect himself.

But still, he’s coming. So I felt some misguided obligation to take the afternoon off work and pick him up at the airport.

A new wave of arrivals walks out from the baggage claim. I scan the faces quickly, a mixture of disappointment and relief filling me when I realize Oliver isn’t among them.

“Miss, you can’t park here.”

I stop chewing on the inside of my cheek and glance at the airport security agent from my spot leaning against the hood of the car. “I’m not parked. I just got here, and I climbed out of the car to greet my husband. He’ll be here any second.”

The older agent scratches at his grizzled jaw. I’m sure he’s heard it all. “If he’s not here in five minutes, you’ll need to move the vehicle, ma’am.”

I nod. “Of course.”

The agent keeps moving onto the next illegally parked vehicle. My gaze returns to the exit, my heart leaping as soon as I see the tall figure walking toward me. Part of me wasn’t certain he would actually come.

Oliver doesn’t break stride once he’s past the automatic doors and through the thickest part of the crowd.

His expression is carefully blank, giving no indication of what he’s thinking or feeling. He’s dressed in a navy suit, looking like he just exited a boardroom instead of disembarking a five-hour flight.

The only similarity I can find between this polished man and the guy I left in a Vegas hotel room with bed head and a sheet wrapped around his waist is that Oliver wears both looks well.

Too well. My body’s reaction isn’t just anxiety.

“Hello, Hannah.”

Something about the way he says my name makes it hard to form words in response.

“I told you I’d order a car.”

He did. That was about all he told me, aside from what time his flight was landing. No explanation for what swayed his firm No into a Yes, although I could make a good guess. No questions about what a weekend with my family would entail. He’s just here, all cool confidence and inscrutable features.

I raise a shoulder, then let it drop. “You flew all this way.”

The motion draws Oliver’s attention to my clothes. I worked from home until I left to drive here, so I never bothered putting on anything professional. I’m in ripped jeans and a cotton t-shirt. No makeup and messy, unstraightened hair. It’s a more casual look than I’d normally wear around anyone except my family.

I didn’t want Oliver thinking I dressed up for him or care what he thinks of me. Now, I’m realizing I might have taken it too far to one extreme.

“Thanks for coming.”

Three simple, unexpected words. It wouldn’t have shocked me if Oliver told me the limo pulled next to the curb two cars up is here for him and he’s headed to a five-star hotel.

“Um, you’re welcome.” I shift awkwardly, not sure what to say or do next.

Spotting the same security guard spurs me into movement. I straighten and pull my keys out of my pocket. He passes us by, glancing between me and Oliver.

Unexpectedly, he smiles at Oliver. “Glad you arrived safely, sir. Your wife was very excited to see you.”

My cheeks blaze as he continues down the sidewalk.

Oliver glances to me, one eyebrow raised.

“I was worried he was going to give me a ticket for parking here,” I tell him, hastily rounding the front of my car and climbing into the driver’s seat.

Oliver stows his suitcase in the back and then climbs into the passenger seat.

“Controls are on the right,” I mutter as I start the car. His legs are shoved up against the glove compartment, too long for the current settings.

Oliver adjusts them and then leans back. “Nice car,” he comments, clicking his seatbelt into place.

I pull away from the curb, undecided if he’s messing with me. I bought this SUV new when I graduated college, and it was a splurge that took years to pay off. My parents paid for school, and that was it. Neither of them came from money, and they were careful to never “spoil” us. After graduation, I was on my own financially.

“What kind of car do you drive?”

Crew’s car was worth more than my house.

“I don’t have a car.”

I glance over at him. Oliver is looking out the window, at the line of palm trees that line the airport exit. “What?”

“I have a driver who takes me between the office and my apartment. That town car belongs to the company.”

“What about when you need to go somewhere besides work?”

“Doesn’t happen very often. If it’s a work event, I’ll use the company car. Otherwise, I’ll take public transit.”

“You ride the subway?”

“I have, yes. Like I said, it doesn’t happen very often.” He half-smiles at my shocked expression. “It’s faster. Better for the environment.”

“How green of you.”

“Nah. I’ve just taken a lot of private jets. Need to balance that somehow.”

“You should talk about how much you love the subway, at dinner. LA doesn’t have good public transit. Also, mention you have a fear of earthquakes. Make sure to talk about how much time your job takes up. If you get a work call, take it. My dad—”

“I’m here to make your family hate me?”

“Not hate. Just recognize getting divorced is the best thing for both of us.”

Oliver makes an annoying humming sound that gives me no insight into what he’s thinking.

I take a deep breath, deciding now is as good a moment as any to come clean about why my parents are attached to the idea of us together.

“So I, um, when I accidentally told my dad I got married—”

“You still haven’t told me how that happened.”

“What do you mean?”

“How did you accidentally tell your dad?”

“Oh.” I merge onto the 405, glad I have the distraction of driving to justify my long pause. Once we’re sitting in traffic, not moving, it’s harder to avoid. “I was meeting my dad and a potential client for dinner. I was early, so I waited at the bar. A guy came over to me, and we were—he was—flirting with me. So I mentioned I was married, and I thought that was that. But then it turned out he was the potential client. He apologized to my dad, thinking he’d hit on his married daughter. It was come clean to my dad or risk this guy’s career with all the subsequent awkwardness.”

“What did he say?”

“Well, he was shocked, obviously. I didn’t—”

“Not your dad. The guy at the bar. What did he say when you told him you were married?”

I risk a glance at him since we’re at a predictable crawl along the freeway. Oliver’s looking straight ahead, giving no indication of what he’s thinking.

“He was…disappointed, I guess?” I’ve never discussed another man with the guy I’m married to but never even dated, and it’s a weird dynamic to navigate.

No response. But it looks like a muscle in Oliver’s jaw jumps as he stares out at the unmoving line of cars.

I still need to clue him in on the lie I told my family, so he knows we’re supposed to be friendlier than strangers. But this doesn’t feel like the right moment, so I say nothing.

It takes another twenty minutes of crawling through traffic until we’re off the highway.

“Is it always this bad?” Oliver asks.

“Pretty much,” I answer, as our surroundings turn residential. It’s rained more lately than usual, so lush grass is visible on both sides of the street.

“You like living here?”

I side-eye him. Still, all I can see is his profile, just like the night we met. “New York doesn’t have wide-open streets.”

“I wasn’t talking about the traffic. I just meant generally.”

“My family lives here,” I answer, as I pull into my driveway.

I rub my sweaty palms on my jeans once we’re out of the car, watching Oliver out of the corner of my eye as he grabs his suitcase and walks toward the house. I could make a pretty good guess what his place in New York looks like. Nothing like the single-level bungalow I live in.

Oliver says nothing as he climbs the stairs, glancing at the porch swing and the row of bushes I planted last spring before glancing over the white siding. The blossoms in the window boxes dance in the slight breeze.

Awareness crawls over my skin as I pass Oliver to unlock the front door. He shakes his head when I gesture for him to walk in first, so I head inside before him.

Unlike my personal appearance, I made sure the house was spotless. Vacuumed and dusted. I even mopped the kitchen. A vase of pink peonies sits on the kitchen counter next to a bowl of limes.

Oliver sets his suitcase down and looks around. There’s interest and curiosity on his face as he wanders toward the kitchen.

It’s way too intimate, having him in my home. In my space. I assumed he’d stay at a hotel, but he asked for my address when he was ordering a car. Since he came all this way, hosting him is the least I can do. But it also feels like broaching a boundary that used to be set firmly in place.

“You got the lamb.”

Oliver is looking at the corner of the living room, where the rocker I got for Eddie and April’s baby is sitting, waiting to be delivered once my niece or nephew arrives.

“Yeah.” I watch him look around for a minute longer before I step forward. “Guest room is down here.”

Without waiting to see if he’s following, I head down the hallway, past the living room and my bedroom.

Footsteps follow behind me, into the second bedroom. This room has the better view of the backyard, which is a square of grass and a stone patio, but my bedroom is slightly bigger.

“I use this as an office, sometimes. So it didn’t make sense to put a bed in here…” I clear my throat and glance at the sleeper sofa that I unfolded and made up with fresh sheets this morning. It’s a queen, but it seems smaller in Oliver’s presence. This whole room does, actually. “I won’t be offended if you want to stay at a hotel.”

“This is great, Hannah. Thank you.”

I wish he’d stop using my name. Something about the way Oliver says it unsettles me. Makes my heart race and stomach twist.

I take a step toward the door, striving for nonchalance as I shuffle past him. “Okay. I’ll be in the kitchen. Bathroom is down the hall if you need it.”

And it’s been meticulously scrubbed and emptied. I’m going to have to haul the toiletries that usually cover the counter down the hallway in a caddy, like I did in college.

Once I’m in the kitchen—alone—I exhale a sigh of relief. We’re supposed to show up at my parents’ house in an hour and a half. If I budget forty-five minutes for what is usually a half-hour drive, that still leaves forty-five minutes.

Less than an hour suddenly sounds like an endless stretch of time.

I fill the tea kettle and set it on the stove, simply for something to do. I already did all the dishes and wiped the counters, so I rearrange the limes and then lean against the counter and stare into space.

“How long have you lived here?”

I jump before glancing over a shoulder at Oliver, who’s standing in the doorway.

His grin is brief, but it appears. “Forgot I was here?”

I rub my chest, trying to calm my racing heart. “No.”

But I was expecting him to remain in his room. To work or to pretend to be busy or something that didn’t involve standing in my kitchen a couple of feet away.

“So?” He walks closer, and I resist the urge to take a step back.

“Three years.”

Oliver nods, glancing around the room again. Even though I’m not much of a chef, I do love my kitchen. The wallpaper is a cheerful pattern of lemons and bees, and I spent an afternoon agonizing over different slabs of marble for the countertops.

The kettle begins to whistle on the stove. I shut the burner off and grab a mug. “Do you want any tea?”

Instead of declining, he nods. “Sure.” Then he rounds the island and takes a seat on one of the stools, obviously planning to stay.

Maybe I should stop making assumptions about what Oliver will do or say. I might feel less off-kilter when he chooses the opposite.

I pour two mugs of peppermint tea, not bothering to ask him what kind he wants since it’s all I have.

I set the steaming cup down in front of him. “My family thinks we dated for months before we got married.”

“How’d they get that idea?” Instead of mad, he sounds amused. Another surprise.

I rephrase. “I told my family we dated for months before we got married.”

He nods, and that’s it. His whole reaction. “Tell me about your family.”

I blow on my tea. “My older brother is Eddie. He’s an anesthesiologist. His wife April is expecting their first baby in a month.”

“How did they meet?”

“Uh, they were high school sweethearts. Met in elementary school, started dating freshman year, and that was it.”

“You’re a cynic, though?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I am. Not as much as I used to be, though.”

“Now that you’re a married man?” I tease.

Oliver smirks. Not a full smile, but close. “My father had Scarlett followed, after she and Crew got married. He claimed it was because of a business deal. But it was because Scarlett was too bold. She had too much power over Crew. My father showed Crew photos of her at a hotel with another man. They weren’t kissing or touching, but it looked bad. He—I—expected Crew would turn his back on her. But Crew did the opposite, and I realized…he loved her. Really loved her. That was the first time I’d ever seen a relationship like that. So now, I know it exists. Just not for everyone.”

I hesitate before asking my next question. Both because I don’t want Oliver to think I’m fishing for information, and because I realize I’m asking it because I want to know more about Oliver. To understand him. “Were you and Crew ever close?”

“Not really. My father loved—loves—pitting us against each other. Crew made more of an effort after getting married. Especially after Lili was born. I never really did, I’m realizing.”

“What about you and your dad?”

“We had highs and lows. Things were better between us when I was younger. I did well in school, exactly what he expected. When I was nineteen, I found out the agreement between my father and Hanson Ellsworth had changed. Not marrying Scarlett was fine with me. But I knew what that would mean for CEO, and that bothered me. It was supposed to be mine. I had the rest of college and then business school to decide how I was going to handle it. My dad was thrilled when I started working at the company. Crew was still in school, so it was just the two of us. Then…things went downhill.”

“Because Crew came back?”

“No. Because he found out I had sex with his wife.”

At first, I think it’s one of his deadpan jokes. When I realize he’s serious, I start coughing. “Your stepmother?”

Oliver nods, looking down at the mug. “She was younger than me. It wasn’t quite as weird as it sounds. But still fucked up, I know.” He glances up at me, and there’s something in his expression that tells me this is a crossroads. That how I react will impact a lot. We’ll end up in the same place—divorced—but the way we get there is being decided right now. He’s trusting me, and I want to be worthy of that.

So I swallow the million questions I have and say, “We all have regrets, right?”

Because I don’t need to ask if he does. It’s obvious in the subtle shift in his expression, the darkening in his eyes and the shadows that line his face.

“Right.”

There’s an awkward beat where we hold eye contact for too long.

Oliver breaks the silence by asking me another question about my family. After we’ve covered Rachel and my parents, I excuse myself to get ready for dinner.

Standing in my kitchen any longer started to feel dangerous. Oliver is here to prove how incompatible he is with my life. Not for me to imagine him fitting in.