“I won’t.”
He claps my shoulder. “Good. Now take your girl home. She’s exhausted.”
Kendall moves toward me, and we climb into the car.
“Tonight was nice,” she says, her head on my shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I like this. All of us together.”
“It is,” I say.
The car pulls away from the curb. Through the back window, I watch Jameson and Addison walk toward a blacked-out SUV, knowing they’ll probably party all night. They’re arguing about something, and Addison playfully shoves his shoulder while he laughs.
“I love you,” she whispers, leaning into me.
“Love you,” I say, holding her close.
Kendall’s breathing slows, and within minutes, she’s asleep against me. I hold her, watching the city lights blur past the window. A smile touches my lips.
For seven years, I waited for her, and now we’re together.
Soon, she’ll be my wife.
Kendall Cross.
I fucking love the sound of that.
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.
