Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91058 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“I don’t want to make things harder for us come Monday. I have no excuse.”
“I’m not making it easy on you. There’s your excuse. I’m practically begging you. And I won’t remember a thing, promise.”
He goes quiet.
“Tell me one fantasy,” I plead. “One.”
“You. In my office. Bent over and holding on to the edge of my desk. You’re in that black pencil skirt you wore your third day on the job.”
“And what are you doing?”
“Tasting you again.”
I swallow past the intense rise of desire threatening to choke me. Before, it was teasing and fun. Now, it feels so raw and real I can barely force a laugh. I lift my head and root myself back in the here and now. When I speak, my voice is wobbly. “Ah, there. That wasn’t so hard.” And then, “Good night, Hudson.”
I hang up.
It’s a bold move, of course. I know full well Hudson is in Chicago, staring down at his phone, hot and bothered by our conversation. Or worse, completely pissed off.
Poor, poor Hudson.
But more importantly, poor, poor ME!
Chapter Twenty-Six
Scarlett
On Sunday night, I’m splayed on my couch, recuperating with a gallon of water, a rerun of Dateline, and a random collection of junk food from my pantry when my phone pings with a new work email.
I reach for my phone right away, but I don’t bother sitting up to read it. It’s a meeting invitation, which doesn’t spark any sort of reaction because I get those all the time. I only go rigid once I see who it’s from.
Hudson wants to meet at 7:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. No one else is on the invite list.
Bright and early the next day, I stroll into the Elwood Hoyt offices with treats for Lucy.
“Oh, look at you, spoiling me,” she says with a laugh of delight.
I point to the brown bag. “Pastries from a little bakery right by my house, the one I was telling you about the other day. You have to heat up the cinnamon roll before you eat it. It’s so much better.”
“Where’s my cinnamon roll?” Hudson asks from behind me.
My back stiffens.
Lucy winks at me. “Ignore him.”
“Did you have a good weekend, Scarlett?”
I can’t look at him. I focus on Lucy as I nod. “Sure. Great.”
“It’s 7:29.”
“So I still have a minute.”
Lucy looks between us, confused.
“We have a meeting this morning,” I explain to her.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Ah, right. Better get to it then.”
She opens up the crinkly brown bag as I turn away and head for Hudson’s office. This must be what it feels like to walk the plank.
I don’t look at him on purpose. No sense in losing my nerve on the way to the lion’s den. Better to steel myself now and freak out in there, behind closed doors.
Though there’s likely no reason to freak out. This meeting could be completely work-related. It could have to do with the McNealand acquisition or something. It’s not out of the question…well, not until Hudson shuts the door behind him and asks, “How was your trip?”
It’s disconcerting to have him at my back, so I turn to face him.
He’s standing with one hand tucked into his pocket. Relaxed and confident. He’s wearing a white button-down underneath a dark gray suit. He shaved this morning, and though I love the scruff, I realize I’ve been dramatically underrating his clean-shaven jaw. He’s not smiling, though that’s the norm with him. I doubt he’s mad, but I can’t be certain.
“Should I apologize?” I ask gently, testing the waters.
If he’s mad at me…I don’t mind, actually. I like him when he’s a little grumpy.
“Are you sorry?” he fires back.
My smile is slow to spread. “No.”
His dark eyes drift over me. “I worried about you getting home.”
“I managed just fine.”
His jaw tics.
“I shouldn’t have called,” I blurt out. “Blame it on the alcohol and the other women. The silly dare…”
“So you regret our conversation?”
My answer is rushed, “Not at all.”
“And you remember what we talked about on the phone?”
“Every word.”
His gaze catches mine. “You promised me you’d forget it.”
I don’t mean to—it’s not that I’m doing it intentionally—but my attention drifts to his desk. His secret fantasy comes to mind, completely unbidden, raw and tantalizing.
He knows that’s what I’m thinking about. My reddening cheeks are a dead giveaway.
I swallow and look down at my high heels.
He starts to walk toward me, closing the space between us with precise, efficient steps. I don’t have time to back away, to retreat even an inch before he has his hand gently around my neck, tipping my chin up with the tip of his thumb.
“Where is the line?” he asks, his gaze flitting between my eyes. “Where am I supposed to stop?”
My hands stay limp at my sides, and though I try to hold perfectly still, suspended in this moment with him, I can feel myself trembling.