4. Hudson
HUDSON
Waiting for my coffee in our building’s lobby, I flip through my email on my phone, hoping for an update from Rose City Skyport (RCS) regarding the status of our contract negotiation, knowing I won’t find anything.
Last Friday in Portland, my team and I answered our prospective client’s questions the best we could, but I have a feeling they’ll be having similar discussions with our competitors this week. And I’m pretty sure we won’t secure their formal answer until that all unfolds.
My nostrils flare as I stare mindlessly at an email from my finance department, not really registering the words. It’s not an unexpected reaction, given this is a familiar response to anything that reminds me of my brother and the woman I had come to care about.
Shaking off my irritation, I grab my coffee from the bar and saunter into the elevator, mentally gearing up for the day. Thankfully, I squeezed in a workout this morning with my best friend, Garrett, a pilot out of the Bay Area. Though it’s become rarer since he and his wife Bella had their daughter, we try to meet up at the gym whenever we can manage it.
A smile pulls at my lips when I think about the videos he showed me of her trying to walk, but my good mood takes an immediate nosedive when the doors to my floor open.
My lingering smile drops when my gaze settles on the woman sitting behind Belinda’s desk.
Cascading waves of dark silky hair—well past her shoulders—frame her face, brushing against the paperwork in front of her. Her thick lashes flutter before she puts the end of her pen to her bottom lip, engrossed in whatever she’s reading. And though she hasn’t looked up, with the glint of that piercing over her top lip, there’s no mistaking who she is.
And . . . is that a homemade cake in the portable cake box in front of her?
Belinda messaged me late Friday evening to tell me the woman Maddy sent her way turned out to be a great fit and was ready to start on Monday.
But surely, she couldn’t have meant the same one . . .
Surely, the universe wouldn’t send the same damn woman to ruin my mood again.
Hoping there’s some sort of explanation for why she’s here—because why the fuck is she here?!—I clear my throat, making her jump. In her scramble to rise from her seat, she knocks her coffee off her coaster, catching it right before it topples, but not before a drop of it lands on the corner of her paperwork.
“Shit!” A flustered pair of amber eyes find me before recognition sets in and they widen to saucers. “What are you . . .”
“I’d like to ask you the same thing.” My gaze rushes down her attire—a faded gray T-shirt with a fucking orange slice illustrated on it that says, ‘Peeling Good,’ tucked inside worn denims, secured by a sparkly white belt, and an oversized men’s blazer folded at the sleeves. “What the fuck are you doing here? And what are you wearing?”
She looks down at her ridiculous outfit as if noticing it for the first time. Her head snaps up and a glint of something—annoyance, perhaps—sparks in her eyes before it turns to uncertainty again. She closes her eyes and murmurs something that sounds like, “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” before she straightens her shoulders.
“Are you . . . you’re Mr. Case?” She doesn’t wait for my response, gleaning the answer, possibly through deductive reasoning or likely from the thunderous look on my face. “Right. Well, I’m your new admin.”
“No, you’re not.” I scoff because this has to be a joke. And not a very good one. “Where’s Belinda?”
“She’s—”
“I’m right here. Sheesh!” My very pregnant admin waddles in behind me, holding the side of her belly and breathing heavily. “I was just using the little girls’ room.” She looks from me to the still-bewildered-looking woman behind her desk before swinging her head back in my direction. “What’s the problem? Hudson, this is Kavita Jain, the woman Madison—”
No.
Hell no.
“She’s not going to work.” I stride right past her desk, not sparing another glance at Ms. Peeling Good and her frayed jacket.
“But—” Belinda’s heels tap furiously on the tile behind me as she tries to keep up. “Hudson.”
Behind my desk, I move a few manila folders off my laptop, still grappling with the fact that the woman I fired last week from my restaurant—a woman who’s flitted through my thoughts more than I care to admit—is the same one my daughter recommended and is now back to working for me.
What are the fucking chances?
The door to my office shuts as an irate-looking Belinda stares at me. “Want to tell me what your problem is? Why are you acting like a child this early in the morning?”
I open my laptop before shrugging off my suit coat and managing an inscrutable expression. Something I’m adept at. “There’s no problem. I get a say in the people we hire, especially when they affect my job directly, and I don’t want her.”
Belinda steps closer, her head tilting. “Is it her attire? I admit, it’s a bit on the casual side, but I can—”
“It’s not.” I take a seat in front of my laptop, keeping my eyes on the screen. “Her attire is only a drop in the bucket of all the reasons she’s not a good fit. I just don’t want her working here.”
“What? Why?” I don’t have to look at her to know her eyes have practically turned to slits. She’s nothing if not skilled at poking and prodding until one of us loses our shit.
I pretend to be intrigued by something on my screen.
“Hudson, you’re being unreasonable.”
“Fire her. Find someone else.”
Belinda’s hands land on the edge of my desk, and I make the mistake of meeting her fearsome and tired gaze. “Hudson Case, either you tell me exactly what’s gotten up your wealthy ass or prepare to hear an earful.”
I snort, letting that be my response. Aren’t I already getting an earful?
Apparently that wasn’t the most prudent thing to do, because Belinda’s hands land over the top of her belly as she fumes, “I hired that woman out there; a woman your own daughter vouched for, by the way. When I messaged you on Friday about her, you told me to trust my instincts, which is precisely what I did. She’s sharp, attentive, and a quick learner. So, you either give her a chance or end up with no admin in the matter of a few weeks.”
I squint at her. “Is that a threat?”
“No.” She shakes her head, picking off a non-existent crumb from her belly with eerie calm. “It’s a fact.”
My eyes flick back to my screen and I keep my mouth shut.
How do I explain that I want that woman out there at a minimum of a ten-mile radius from me with no knowledge of her whereabouts or address?
How do I reveal that, for reasons surpassing the incident at the restaurant, everything about her irks me?
Her breathy gasps, the rise and fall of her chest, and the flush that sweeps over her cheeks whenever she’s embarrassed.
Her fucking heart-shaped lips . . .
She’s the definition of a walking, talking migraine.
“Alright.” Belinda raises and drops her arms to her sides in exasperation. “Fine, I’ll tell her to go home because, for whatever reason, my boss doesn’t find her to be a good fit. But guess what you’re going to have to do?” When I chance another glance at her, she flashes me a smug grin that says she knows she’s on the verge of victory. “You’re going to have to tell your daughter why you fired her friend without a fair shot. And rest assured, that will not be an easy conversation.”
My hand balls into a fist around a pen as my molars grind, and I recall the promise I made to Maddy at the end of our dinner—to give her friend the benefit of doubt and a fair shot.
I rub my temples with the tips of my fingers, watching as Belinda struts back toward the door with her nose in the air.
Goddammit! How do the women in my life always seem to get their way?
“Fine,”I grit, keeping my voice low and my eyes trained on my screen, stopping her in her tracks. “Keep her. But I swear to God, Belinda, the second she becomes a bigger headache than she already looks like, I’ll fire her and bring you back with that newborn of yours. So, make sure to train her well.”
With her hand on the doorknob, Belinda turns her head to the side, and I don’t miss the triumphant smile flickering at the corners of her lips. “Yes, boss. But just so you know, it’d be illegal for you to ask me to come back during my leave. I’m pretty sure I can sue you for the gazillions you wipe your ass with, so unless it’s to congratulate me on my new bundle of joy, don’t call me.” She flips her hair off her shoulder. “Oh, and that’s definitely not a threat; it’s a promise.”
I glareat the white plate, covered in see-through plastic wrap, for the tenth time.
A swirl of Nutella decorates the slice of pound cake under the wrap. Even from its place at the corner of my desk, the sweet scents of vanilla, chocolate, and butter seep through the covering, agitating my senses. It’s the same scent that lingered inside my nose days after the restaurant incident, and now I feel like my fucking brain is floating in it.
And the small orange Post-It note with the words, Thanks for chasing away the rain stuck to it? It’s pissing me right the fuck off.
Who the hell bakes a cake for their first day of work?
She came in an hour ago, trying to be confident with each stride toward my desk, though I didn’t miss the way she fiddled with the bottom of her blazer. Not that I was looking, since my eyes never left my laptop.
I also never wondered if said blazer was her own or if she borrowed it from her boyfriend because she got dressed at his house this morning.
I never wondered about that, but the thought managed to piss me off, regardless.
“I . . . I’m learning to bake.” Her soft voice, the same as I remembered from the restaurant and then from this morning, grated against my ears. “I got this recipe book called Thirty Easy Bakes to Know by Thirty. I’ve been trying each recipe, and—”
“Ms. Jain, as riveting as your culinary endeavors sound, I don’t have time for the diatribe.” I didn’t spare her a glance. “Please make sure you close the door on your way out.”
A pink tint had settled at the tops of her brown cheeks when she dropped her eyes to her clasped hands and nodded, abruptly turning to leave. But before she made it through the door, I’d glanced up, not knowing exactly why I was holding my next words with all my might at the tip of my tongue.
To stop her?
But why the fuck would I want to stop her?
If this was going to work, then there was no reason to become too familiar. There was no reason to let her think I appreciated gestures of the type. I’d gone down that route in the past and look where it landed me—with my girlfriend in bed with my brother, and a betrayal that rocked the foundation of the company I’d worked so hard to build.
In any case, in three months, she’ll be on her way to her art therapy job to do whatever the fuck it is that art therapists do, and I’ll still be running a multi-million-dollar company here in California.
So I dropped my eyes back to my computer, but not before letting them trail down to her exquisite ass, full hips, and thick thighs, practically ripping the seams of her denims.
I’ve never been attracted to thin, fragile-looking women—the types that look like they’d break in the arms of a six-foot-two, two-hundred-plus-pound man. My eyes are magnets for round hips and soft curves, a round and plentiful ass. There’s something so hot about being able to grab handfuls of a woman’s ass, watching it bounce while being buried deep inside her.
As soon as the door clicked, I shoved those thoughts right out of my mind. As it was, I wouldn’t be able to get out of my seat sporting the boner inside my pants for a good time to come.
The woman is my daughter’s friend, half my age, and from every encounter till now, somewhat of a hot mess.
Not only that, but acting on or even thinking about someone who was now working for me was out of the question. Not that I was even remotely interested in her.
I’d broken that rule in the past—dating someone from our marketing department and thinking I could trust her, only to have her stab me in the back, right alongside my brother. I’d be a fool to go down the same road again.
No matter how sweet and innocent the woman sitting at Belinda’s desk looks, I don’t know her, nor do I want to. Sure, Maddy’s opinion of her holds weight, which is why Kavi even has the job, but it won’t be the reason I let someone cross the boundaries I’ve firmly set.
After typing and deleting the same damn sentence in an email four times, I slam my fingers onto the keyboard before running them through my hair.
Belinda left an hour ago, as stated in the email she sent me. About as big of a fuck you as I expected, given she barely spoke to me all day. I heard her and Kavi murmuring throughout the morning before they eventually went to lunch together.
Evidently, she’s still pissed off about my reluctance to hire the art therapist with the work experience of a toddler in her stead. Well, go right the fuck ahead, Belinda. I’m not losing sleep over it. Because if I’m going to be strong-armed into keeping this woman around for three months, then she’ll have to deal with my retorts and objections while she’s around.
Ifshe sticks around.
My eyes drag back to the plate, and I huff before bringing it toward me. Ripping off the note, I stall on the words written on itagain—on every letter curved and contoured, as if painted with a brush. She even drew an umbrella over the words.
Thanks for chasing away the rain.
My gaze inadvertently finds the droplets clinging to the windows in my office, the gloom from the lack of sun over the past few weeks barely noticeable in the evening. The rain hasn’t let up all day, and the forecast says it has no inclination for doing so in the foreseeable future.
What the fuck is she talking about?
Chasing away the rain?
Not knowing what to do with the dessert—not wanting to relent by eating it, nor wanting to throw it away—I shove it inside my leather bag.
Thirty minutes later, well past the time most of the staff has left, I pull my suit coat back on. Stowing my laptop inside my bag, and careful not to squish the cake, I head out of my office. As usual, my eyes harden, along with my jaw, at the empty office across mine.
Shoving away memories, and the subsequent crack to my heart, of the day they both came to my office to tell me they were going to work for our rivals—with my girlfriend at the time telling me she’d slept with my brother—I stalk down the hall, heading toward the exit. The last thing I expect is to see movement at Belinda’s desk.
It’s well past eight and pouring buckets outside. So why the hell is she still here?
My legs still, a frown pulling at the corners of my mouth. “Why are you still here?”
“Hi! Um . . .” She rises awkwardly, making the chair roll back farther than she intended. She swipes a strand of silky hair behind her ear, giving me a glimpse of . . . Are those plastic orange slices hanging from her ears? The woman has the strangest taste in fashion. “Belinda said she stayed until you left. So . . .”
Right. Belinda usually comes to my office to tell me to leave before she threatens to sue me for something.
“I don’t expect that from you.” I scowl—which seems to be my permanent expression around this woman—watching her tangle her hands together nervously. “In fact, I don’t expect anything from you.”
She flinches, as if my words physically assaulted her, and before she can form a response, I turn to walk to the elevator.
She isn’t Kenna, and this isn’t like me.
Sure, I’m surly and demanding; I’ve been more so after the way things went down with Jett and Kenna, since they also managed to take a few key staff with them. But have I ever been this callous?
I’d lost faith that day, in the people I thought I could trust, in the way I’d run my business until then. In me.
To think my own fucking brother—the kid I’d practically helped raise, my flesh and blood—would shove a dagger in my back. For what? And why?
I don’t give two-flying fucks about Kenna—she lost her place in my life and my heart the minute she told me she”d slept with my brother because I wasn’t “around enough”—but I have thought about asking him if it was worth it. Was it worth it to gut the person who always stood by his side? Who helped make him who he is?
I haven’t asked though, and I probably never will. Like I said, I don’t chase quitters.
I’m inside the elevator, with the doors closing, when I think I hear a sniffle.
Fuck.
I jab a finger on the Open Door button right as my hand juts out to try to keep the doors open, but it’s too late. The doors force closed, and I’m stuck inside with my stomach in knots.
The weight of my own bitterness presses against the walls of my chest as the elevator descends.
The doors finally open, revealing the lobby downstairs, the doorman scrolling his phone at the front and pellets of rain still streaming down the windows.
I have half a mind to push the button for my floor again and go back up to talk to her . . . to apologize. Shit! I don’t know.
But instead, I find my feet moving me toward the exit before I’m settling into my truck inside our parking garage. I toss my laptop bag onto the passenger seat before slamming the bottom of my palm against my steering wheel. “Goddammit!”
I throw my head back against my headrest as the sound of her sniffle echoes inside my ears. I’m a fucking asshole, venomous and cold.
When did I become this way?
Glancing at the seat next to me, I pull out the stupid slice of cake she made, which is only slightly flattened inside my bag.
Peeling back the plastic, I dig in with the fork she’d tucked inside as well. It’s spongy and sweet, with just the right amount of chocolate. In a few bites, I’ve eaten the entire thing.
But it does nothing to sweeten the bitterness inside my conscience.