Page 121 of False Play
THIRTY-FOUR
KENNEDY
GOOD THING I’M NOT IN THE BUSINESS OF PLEASING MEN WHO THREATEN ME.
We’d won the game,and while the guys went out to celebrate, I decided to come back home, get in some comfortable clothes, and work on the last details of the gala while hanging out with Captain Sushi in Henry’s bed.
It’d become my new norm. I couldn’t remember the last time I slept or hung out in my own room. There was something comforting about being in his bed, where Henry’s familiar scent lingered. It was like being at peace and at home.
I took one last look at the number of people who had RSVP’d. Almost double the attendees we had the previous year—which was exciting—but it also served as a fresh reminder of the opportunities we’d be missing sinceFirstGendecided to drop out of the charity event. Through no fault of their own, of course. I just wish Brad had been able to convince them to stay.
My chest tightened at the thought. While Brad didn’t blame me and assured me time and time again the job I did was still great, I still doubted my ability to lead. To manage. I blamed myself, even if just a little. I should have known better and kept a closer eye on Matt. I should have scheduled allmeetings outside of HQ. There were so many things I could have done differently.
A knock on the door pulled me out of my spiraling thoughts. Sush’s ears perked up at the sound, but when I reached down to pet his head, he went right back to batting around his favorite plush toy. Another knock followed a few seconds later, more insistent this time. I grabbed my favorite pink cardigan, slipping it on as I made my way to the hallway. The moment I opened the door, my pulse spiked.
“You must be Kennedy.” The gruffness of his voice caught me off guard, because it was similar to Henry’s but not quite the same. It was hard not to notice the similarities between Vincent Anderson and his son. Their builds were nearly identical, and his hair had the same soft texture and dark color as Henry’s, though his was streaked with gray. His eyes were blue, but they lacked the familiar warmth I’d come to love from Henry’s.
“May I help you?” Feigning ignorance was the safest bet. I put on the professional mask and hoped to God I wasn’t going to crack.
“I’m Vincent Anderson, Henry’s?—”
“I know who you are,” I replied coldly, but as professionally as I could.
He smirked while his eyes roamed my body in a way that made me recoil. “I bet you do.”
It took everything in me to keep my scoff in check. “How did you get past security?”
“Well, my namedoescarry some weight.”
Figured as much.
“Are you not going to let me in?” he asked.
I gripped the frame door and opened it wider. Maybe if I obliged him, he’d leave faster. “Of course, come on in. Would you like something to drink?” I asked as I strode into thekitchen, opened the fridge, and grabbed a water for myself. I wasn’t even thirsty. I only needed to keep my hands busy.
“No, thank you. This will be quick.”
I turned around as I opened the water and took a sip, hoping to ease some of my nerves. “Henry’s not here.”
“I know. I came here to see you.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on one of the barstools. “I’m not one to beat around the bush, so tell me. How much is my son paying you?”
I took a step back, like I’d been slapped in the face. “Excuse me?”
He clasped his hands with a laugh, but the sound was calculated. It held no humor. “How much is my son paying you to date him? To clean up his reputation. There must be some sort of arrangement here, because you’re not the typical woman he goes for.”
A few months ago, the comment would have slashed me. There was no denying the evil glint in his eyes. He was fishing. Looking for a way to hurt me. But I knew better. Henry showed me time and time again how much he appreciated me with every little thing he did. While his father certainly wasn’t wrong, and Henry used to cycle through different kinds of women in the past, that was then.
“I’m not quite sure what you’re implying, but I think you should choose your next words carefully,” I replied as evenly tempered as I could.
He chuckled, and the way he met my eyes made my body tremble slightly with unknown fear. But I quickly shoved it down. Men like him feasted on fear and insecurity.
“I looked into you,” he said, straightening as his hands gripped the leather of the bar stool with casual authority. “Kennedy Jones. Thirty-two years old. Only child. Graduated top of your class at USC. Their PR program’s no joke, so thatwas a nice surprise. You’ve been working for the Strikers for about three years now.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he didn’t give me the chance.
“You were engaged for a while. Called it off a few months before the wedding. Left you in a fair amount of debt, calling it off so late. What a shame, truly.” He let out a low whistle as he straightened to his full height and stepped closer, crowding my space, trying to intimidate me.
My pulse spiked, and I could feel my face pale.How the hell did he know that?
