Abyss (Elements of Rapture Book 4)

11. Kavi

KAVI

I’m staring at my boss, not that he knows it. And I’ve been doing so, off and on, for the better part of an hour.

While I woke up with deep, dark circles around my eyes—to which I applied a chilled bottle of vodka from the mini fridge, hoping to de-puff my skin—he looks like he was in the habit of passing out drunk and waking up glowing like a movie star.

Four hours later, with all contractual documents signed and celebrated with our clients, not a single brown hair has shifted out of place from the top of his head. Nor does he display the slightest evidence of a rough night. In fact, in his signature suit and tie, his salt-and-pepper scruff perfectly trimmed, his eyes seem to look sharper, more intense, like storm clouds gathering in the horizon.

Thank God, Corbin let bygones be bygones with what Hudson said to him last night when he saw him getting handsy. Thankfully, I was able to clear the air with him before Hudson and I left, letting him know I wasn’t interested in any sort of relationship or even casual dating. He seemed to understand, telling me to inform him if I change my mind.

I won’t be.

The longer I stare, the more my boss’s crescent-shaped lips pull downward, the creases around his mouth deepening.

“If you have something to say, just say it, Ms. Jain.”

Ah, so we’re back to Ms. Jain.

Does he even remember anything from last night?

The way he scowled at Corbin all night, as if imagining his death in vivid detail. The way he pulled me into him in the elevator, his body’s reaction too difficult to hide. The way his breath floated over my skin, his lids succumbing to the haze in his head as he said those last words.

“You’re perfect.”

Does he remember any of it, or would he have acted the same with anyone in my position?

His low voice bounces around the small conference room we’ve borrowed inside the Rose City Skyport’s business building, and I pull my gaze back to my laptop, shaking my head. “No, I have nothing notable to say, Mr. Case.”

He takes in a long, disapproving breath, as if my answer has exasperated him before pinning me with one of his glares. “Then what’s the problem?”

I tilt my head, lowering the screen of my laptop so I’m not hiding behind it, even though I want to. “I don’t have a problem. Do you?”

“No.”

“Great.” I give him an insincere smile. “Then why don’t you continue your Silence of the Lambs routine, and I’ll keep working.”

He blinks. “What?”

I lift my screen and frown at the words I was typing on the slides, which no longer make any sense. “Nothing. Never mind.”

Another sigh. “Is this about last night?”

I close my laptop screen, leaning back with my arms wrapped around my chest. The movement stirs the air around us, and I tilt my chin down to look at my exposed cleavage as goosebumps rise over my skin. Hudson follows my gaze, not even attempting to disconnect his heated perusal. “I’m wondering the same thing.”

His brow arches. “Care to elaborate?”

“Yeah, I’ll elaborate.” I nod, determined to either shove that stick up his ass even further or take it out and whack him upside the head with it. “From the time I called you this morning, ensuring you got up on time so we could be here for the early meeting, to now, you’ve only said a handful of words to me—four, in fact, if I’m being technical. ‘Get me my coffee,’ when I asked you how you were doing this morning.” I recount his words, mimicking the small flick of his hand in my direction. “And you didn’t even have the decency to look at me when you said them.”

A few beats go by as his eyes stay on me. “I’m looking at you now.”

“Yes, but—”

He rises from his seat abruptly, closing his laptop. “Come with me.”

My brows crease while he stows his belongings into his bag. “Wh-where are we going?”

Our flight isn’t for another four hours, and we had plans to catch up on a few pending items from other projects.

Zipping up his bag, he casts a questioning glance in my direction, like he’s wondering why I haven’t moved. Clearly losing patience, he turns toward the exit, speaking over his shoulder. “To find you an apartment.”

Say what?

I quickly stash my things in my bag and hurry after him, wobbling in my new orange heels. How do people walk in these?

Finding him waiting for the elevator, I saddle up next to him, a little breathless. “What do you mean, ‘to find me an apartment’?”

The elevator doors open and we huddle inside. I’m beginning to realize a lot of our notable conversations happen inside elevators.

Bag in hand, he looks straight ahead. “I’m pretty sure I spoke English.”

“Yes, but why?” I press. “Why are you concerned with finding me an apartment here?”

He side-eyes me, moving his lips minimally as he speaks. “Didn’t seem to bother you when Casanova Corbin suggested it.”

I’m momentarily caught off guard, almost forgetting to step off the elevator behind him, but spring into action at the last second. Is he . . . jealous? Is that what all that jaw popping and chest-puffing was about last night?

“Firstly, Casanova Corbin? Is that the best you can do? And secondly,” I follow him out of the building with him ignoring the fact that I can barely keep up with his long strides in this ridiculous skirt and heels. “I didn’t get a chance to respond to him because you did that for me.”

Jaw grinding, Hudson throws me a grimace over his shoulder. “And what would you have said?”

“I’m here for work, Hudson.” I scoff. “You’re the one who pays my salary, so I would have said no.”

Apparently, my answer only deepens his frown and my boss gives me another one of his disapproving looks.

What the hell did he want me to say?

Three minutes later, we’re sitting in the back seat of another chauffeured car, with me chewing on my fingernails. I look out the window, trying to glean where we’re going, but of course, I don’t really know because I’m not familiar with the city.

I glance at Hudson sitting next to me, typing away on his phone, his watch gleaming as it picks up the sunlight.

I’m momentarily distracted by his long fingers and clean, rounded nails. Was that an older man thing—strong, manly hands that look both soft and rough? I don’t recall any men my age having hands like that. And I definitely don’t recall staring at them so brazenly, imagining those fingers doing all sorts of fingerly things.

I mentally shake myself out of my daze, recalling what I was going to say. “I’m not really sure what I can afford just yet. Maybe this is all too soon. I don’t even know where the hospital is.”

Hudson doesn’t offer me a visual acknowledgement, speaking to his phone screen. “I made appointments at two apartment complexes near the hospital. We can walk through a couple of units and you can—”

A gasp falls from my lips, my jaw dropping. “You made appointments? When?”

He doesn’t answer, leaving me to my assumptions.

He made appointments, did research, and looked up where I’d be working?

Why?

Our car stops in front of a well-maintained and manicured apartment complex with an exterior displaying a symmetrical arrangement of light blue-painted balconies and windows. The driver pulls open my door, and I join Hudson as we enter a welcoming entrance gate.

Inside, Hudson speaks to one of the managers while I look at the rental pricing displayed on the boards, along with the various apartment layouts.

I take quick steps toward Hudson while the manager goes back into her office to pick up her keys. “Hudson,” I whisper. “I . . . I can’t afford any of these. I’d be spending most of my salary on rent.”

I don’t mention that my brother will also need a car next year, and that I plan to give him mine once it’s fixed and buy myself another used one. All that to say, I won’t be able to afford a place with a ‘state-of-the-art fitness center’ and ‘high-end kitchen appliances’.

He gives me a long look so I snap my mouth shut for a moment. But then I decide I need to get my thoughts out before the manager comes back. “I don’t know what you think art therapists make, but it’s definitely not the exorbitant salary you’re paying me.” I continue, despite him looking at his watch like he’s bored with my diatribe, “Plus, I’m not a fancy-pants like you. I’m perfectly happy with something more . . . dumpy.”

“Fancy-pants.” He deadpans.

“Yes.” Making my point, I jab at his sparkling watch, his cufflinks, and then his tie clip—all items that cost well over my summer salary. “Fancy-pants,” I repeat.

He rolls his eyes before following the manager, volleying, “You’re not staying at a dump,” at me with another disapproving look.

Heels tapping the tiles quickly, I reluctantly follow them both. Just because I look at a place, doesn’t mean I have to sign any agreement today.

Fine, I’ll look.

After asking the manager about the distance to the hospital, I walk through the one-bedroom unit. The views are pretty from the windows in the master bedroom, displaying part of the Burnside Bridge spanning the Willamette River.

While I’m admiring the beautifully finished bathroom with its free-standing tub, I hear Hudson ask the manager about the security around the complex and whether the apartment staff stayed on premises in case of emergency.

The corners of my lips lift, listening to the baritone of his voice, the concern in his words, masked with confidence and assuredness.

Does Hudson Case actually care for my well-being? Well, paint me purple and call me a grape, maybe that alcohol is still in his system!

An hour and a walk-through of another complex later, we’re back inside our car, headed to the airport with Hudson looking at his phone sourly.

After seeing my reaction at the very first apartment, he insisted I pay the deposit and secure the place, but I told him I needed to think about it.

There was no question the apartment was everything I’d be happy in, plus it was a five-minute drive to the hospital, but I really didn’t want to stretch myself thin when I still had Mom and Neil to think about. The entire reason I’d taken this job so far away from them was because it paid well enough that I could send some money back home with each paycheck. I couldn’t splurge it all on high-vaulted ceilings and panoramic views.

“Mr. Case.”

Hudson’s eyes focus on me with an unimpressed look that has my lips twitching. “I thought I told you to call me by my first name.”

I shift in my seat, pulling my seat belt along with me as I turn to him. “It doesn’t seem proper given you keep calling me Ms. Jain.”

“And what would you have me call you?” His question lingers in the space between us, and I know just as well as he does that we”re both thinking about last night.

“Kav,” I answer, my voice more a whisper than I’d intended. “Call me Kav. I-I liked it.”

His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow, his thick brown lashes flutter over his eyes as I watch his hand loosen over his phone. “Okay.”

Despite wanting to look away from his heated stare, I keep my eyes on him. “Do you . . .” Now that I’ve started, I almost want to change the direction of my question, but the nagging feeling inside me, insisting I ask, pulls the words from my lips. “Do you remember much of last night?”

Please say no.

Please say yes.

Hudson’s mouth opens, and I swear he starts to say yes. I’d swear it if it wasn’t mixed with the clearing of his throat. He shakes his head, briefly looking down at his phone. “Just bits and pieces. I don’t drink like that often.” He scans my face. “I hope I wasn’t unprofessional in any way.”

I weigh out his answer, deciding to take him at his word. Maybe he is telling the truth, given he isn’t in the habit of drinking. Maybe he really doesn’t remember much.

I force the images of our groins touching in the elevator and our breaths tangling over his bed from my mind. I give him a reassuring smile. “No, you were a perfect gentleman.”

He nods.

“Thank you for . . .” I clear my throat. “Thank you for spending time looking for apartments for me. It meant a lot to me, Hudson.”

“You didn’t want to lock any of them down, so it’s not like it accomplished anything.” He goes back to scrolling on his phone.

“Yes, but it still meant something to me,” I contend, watching his long fingers again.

I really need a life.

He’s quiet for a moment, the turn signal the driver just clicked the only sound inside the car. “Do you have friends here?”

“No.” I shake my head, chuckling. “I barely have friends at home, besides Madison, of course. She’s great.”

Something shifts in his demeanor, something I can’t quite read. “Why?”

Regretting my admission, I laugh, trying to lighten the mood that seems to be setting in like a gloom. “Why is your daughter great? Well, let’s see. She’s kind, thoughtful, funny, and beautiful, inside and out.” I feign a gasp, as if realizing something for the first time. “You know . . . I think she only gets one of those qualities from you.”

I’m banking on the hope that he won’t ask which one, but I love the bored look that settles on his features, pretending like he doesn’t care.

Mr. Hudson Case. Dare I say, I might just be figuring you out.

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He lets a silent beat pass between us. “Why don’t you have friends besides Maddy?”

It’s my turn to swallow, feeling the heat of an intense spotlight warm my skin. I hitch a shoulder up, aiming for casual. “You could say I have trust issues.”

My hands twitch on my lap as the memory of a cold, damp wall brushes my fingertips.

For a moment, I’m back, locked inside the tiny chamber in a muggy basement boiler room, left there for hours until I passed out from screaming.

Lifting my arm, I squeeze the back of my neck. My muscles often knot in that area when the musty undertones and a whiff of metal and lubricants clog my senses.

I adjust myself on my seat, hoping to avoid further conversation when Hudson’s voice catches me mid-neck-squeeze, pausing my movements.

“Are the trust issues the result of that scar?”

I release a shaky breath, dropping my arm and covering it with my free hand.

Hudson watches closely as I brush my hand over my arm, trying to hide the long, almost decade-old surgical scar—a reminder of the face of cruelty.

Giving up my effort to cover it, I drop my hand and fiddle with the silver band around my thumb. I had it resized years ago, though I’ve since lost my own. We’d gotten the same words engraved inside it—’98 and 3/4th percent guaranteed’—as a reminder of our first argument and a vow for many, many more.

“No,” I murmur, smiling wistfully down at my hands. “This scar is a reminder of my strength.”