Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
The driver had said the third field. So, I headed that way and stopped before I reached the field. My eyes couldn’t comprehend what I was seeing.
It was a lacrosse field with several dozen upper-elementary-school-aged kids running drills. They all wore matching red-and-white T-shirts and shorts with helmets and gloves and sticks. Most of them were drenched in sweat but appeared to be both deep in concentration and having the time of their lives.
None of that was unusual.
What was out of place… was the coach.
I recognized him from a hundred yards off.
Court Kensington coached youth lacrosse.
My jaw dropped open at the sight of him. He looked hot as fuck out there in red shorts and a white T-shirt. A whistle dangled from his neck, and he had a stick in his hand, demonstrating some move that I had no hope of imagining its purpose. I’d never seen anyone play lacrosse. It was a rich white guy sport. But the way Court handled that stick made me wonder why I’d never given it a chance.
My mouth went dry. I was staring. Surely, he would be able to feel my eyes drilling into the back of his head.
But he never looked up. His full attention was on the team of boys learning the sport that he’d played all through college. In fact, it was the very sport that I’d made him donate a shit-ton of money to when we first started working together.
My eyes scanned the logo on their shirt. It was the same recreation team. He’d funded the team. And now, he coached them.
How had this happened? How had he kept this from me? Why had he kept this from me?
Surely, he could see how good this would look to the press.
And then I realized that was why he hadn’t told me. He didn’t want it in the press. It wasn’t about him. It was about the kids and the love of the sport. Court Kensington had a heart.
I had completely misjudged him.
He wasn’t who I’d thought he was at all.
I slowly backed away. As much as I wanted to watch him coach those boys, I knew he wanted this all to himself for a reason. And I wouldn’t be the one to take this away from him.
20
English
As I slipped into my black cocktail dress for Penn and Natalie’s wedding reception tonight, my stomach twisted with doubt. I hadn’t gone to see Court. We hadn’t discussed what I’d seen. Or the assumptions I had made about him.
I kept wanting to do it. To tell him that I was wrong about what I’d said to him. Not that he’d given me an indication that he was in someway a different sort of person than he presented to anyone else. And it was unfair for him to place all the blame on me for not seeing past his facade. But I should have.
That was part of my job. To see my client for who they were and work toward a mutual, beneficial outcome. But I’d been blind to that. My research had all indicated that Court Kensington was a hellish playboy with no ambition and a streak of stupidity to which he never had consequences.
Now, I didn’t know.
I’d spent the time apart, reconsidering the persona he’d crafted. I still had no idea why he let people believe that he was a grade A jackass who fucked anything that walked. But that clearly was not who he was. Or who he no longer was. One or the other. I wasn’t sure which.
And so, I’d done my job. I’d worked with him the last week through text. Perfectly professional. All the while knowing it was leading to tonight, where I’d finally see him.
I wanted answers. And there was something stirring my chest. Maybe… hope. Hope that we could talk this out and figure out what to do from here.
Hope was a dangerous emotion.
It gave me anxiety.
But I still finished the waves in my hair and the smoky-eye makeup I’d perfected at a young age and called a cab to take me to The Plaza.
I was not at all surprised that Court and Penn’s mother had insisted on a wedding reception at The Plaza. It seemed like something an Upper East Side mother would do. Something Lark’s mom would do if she let her. Which seemed unlikely.
I’d gone to the Oscars, Emmys, Tonys, and a dozen various music award ceremonies, and I’d never felt like more of a fraud than as I stepped out on a red carpet for a fucking wedding reception. There were photographers waiting outside to take pictures of all the elite guests. And then there was me.
I handed my invitation over at the entrance and was ushered inside with the rest of the Upper East Side. I wasn’t here to make sure some A-list celeb didn’t forget their speech. I was here on my own merits. Somehow, it felt worse. More of a sham. There, I’d had a purpose. Here… I felt adrift.