Chapter Twenty-Five
Hudson
S carlett is waiting for me on my doorstep when I get home that evening.
I stop as I reach her, and she rises to her feet. It’s already dark out, but New York always shines, and between the streetlamp on the curb near my home on its old, tree lined strip and the soft light from my outside light I can see her perfectly.
She takes my breath, she really does. Her dark honey hair is beautiful always, but in this light, it’s spectacular, and the way she defiantly lifts her chin is something I can feel down in my bones.
I unlock my door and the smart lights bloom as I gesture inside.
For a moment, Scarlett hesitates, something darkening the light of her hazel eyes. Maybe it’s the makeup. It’s slight, but she usually wears none. I don’t even know why I notice.
“She liked you,” I say, putting her out of her misery, because I decide that’s what it is.
Scarlett steps inside but doesn’t speak, just closes the door and hugs herself.
“My mother, that is,” I clarify. “She liked you before, but this time she wanted to have a real one on one, and I don’t know what you said or did, but she told me she thinks you’re a perfect match for me. I’ve no idea what that means in all this, if anything, but well done.”
Scarlett moves then, reaching for me and grabbing me and pulling me to her. And then she rises up and kisses me. A shock, like an electric current, runs through me from that contact.
It’s not just the kiss, it’s the fact she does it. The touch of her lips on mine isn’t light. It isn’t overtly sexual. It’s something else I can’t put my finger on, something that tastes a little bittersweet, and then I stop thinking as the kiss changes, morphs into passion.
And I’m there for it. Seems I always am with her. She smells like those flowers and morning dew. Clean, not too sweet, yet somehow evocative and seductive and it slides through me, warming me.
Or maybe it’s her. I wrap my arms around her and pull her flush against me, our mouths opening and our tongues dancing slow and sensual and I’m hard and ready to fuck her then and there.
Then again, I could hold off on that pleasure, because kissing her is delicious. That heat and wetness and Scarlett taste that sometimes invades my dreams.
And here, where there’s no one to witness such a slow, melting kiss, one that isn’t foreplay but could be, the foreplay without the urgency, it feels natural. Like this is something I want to do with her because I can.
Like it could be leading into hot sex or it could just be a kiss all on its own. Both merited, both perfection.
Scarlett breaks the kiss and leans her forehead against my chest. I can feel the hammering of her heart as I hold her. The little harsh intakes of air as she steadies herself are something I understand. And want.
It’s a little shocking, to have this feel so good and right and part of life.
Kissing isn’t like that for me. Hasn’t been since I was a hormone fueled teen. But with Scarlett…yeah, with her apparently it is.
And I like it.
Probably because this has a shelf life. Probably because it isn’t real, no matter how real it might feel in the moment. I pull myself back into that headspace, the familiar one that has a well-worn groove I know.
Scarlett lifts her head and I smooth my hand over it, lingering a moment at her nape, against the warm and delicate skin there, beneath the softness of her hair.
“We need to talk,” she says.
“You’re right.”
And she is. Because this thing between us is good and something I can use, I appreciate her honesty, as unwieldy and left of center as it might sometimes be, I can also give back.
I’m not being entirely truthful. Giving back, yes, but I also want her to understand the depth of meaning all this has taken on for me. The family jewels and the company.
“Um, okay.” Scarlett pulls free and wipes her hands down her thighs. She looks around, trying to see where to sit.
But I stop her with a hand placed gently on her shoulder. “I’ll go first.”
I want to go upstairs to my private floor. Instead, I lead her from the wide hall and into the front living room. It’s comfortable and I sometimes work down here. The view from the window is weirdly a lovely snapshot of New York that reminds me of yesteryear. My quiet street helps, as does the large magnolia tree outside that twists and turns in the narrow space between window and iron fence and pavement beyond on the street.
We did have sex in here, and for a moment I get a flash of us fucking all over the house. We haven’t done that, but I’d like to.
I sit in the leather armchair and cross my legs, tapping my fingers against the arms. What the hell does that mean, anyway?
Scarlett perches on the sofa’s corner and places her hands on her thighs, like she’s ready to run.
She’s like that. A complete and utter mess of contradictions.
It really strikes hard, hits home that she means a hell of a lot to me. More than I’d ever thought she would, and I’m not sure what that even means, or how she means so much. But she does. And I want to give her something because I know I owe her.
“Scarlett, time’s running out, I get that. But that’s not what I want to say. I guess I want to say thank you.”
“To me?”
I laugh at the disbelief in her voice and smile. “Yeah, to you. There are so many ways this could have gone, but you…you’ve surpassed everything for me in the authenticity. So I want to give back, be honest with you.”
“Oh, God. You have a secret family, don’t you? A secret life. Maybe—”
“I do not have a family other than the one you’ve met.” I shudder at the thought of being trapped by the fakeness we’re sold as love, even if someone like Scarlett could definitely convince any other man it actually exists.
“Oh.”
“This is important to me.”
She nodded. “I’m not saying family jewels, because…but yeah, I get it.”
I half smile at that. “No, you don’t. I’m rich. I don’t need to point that out, but this isn’t about power or money. It’s, for me, legacy. Growing up, the legend, the myth of the Sinclair jewels were instilled in us. People have tried to find them. They’ve been written about. Arguments have been made over the decades whether they’re real or if they aren’t, how much they’re worth… and then I grew up. Made my own money and stopped thinking about them.”
“You don’t need to tell me any of this.”
“I know,” I say, looking at her, “not in that way, but I need to. And you’re different, Scarlett. I don’t get how or why, but you’re unlike anyone I’ve met. This thing is bigger than what you signed on for.”
That feels like better footing. The rest seems to skate close to a nest of emotions I’m not sure I want to visit. I look at the perfect crease in my suit pants, at the shine on my shoes, and for once I’m a little sick of all that. Maybe her rough edges that I like are contagious.
“And because it’s bigger you should know why you’re giving up a longer period of your life to this thing I’m doing.” I blow out a breath. My house is too quiet. It needs life and sound and laughter and the sorts of things someone like Scarlett can breathe into it. I push that thought away with everything else and focus on my words.
“It’s not money or power. It’s about something more important. Family legacy and what it means to me. Having the proof they exist is like having a connection to history, a piece of the family. And…even my father.
“Some say, me included, that the old man was all about money and power and the company and they wouldn’t be wrong. I grew up with the man. Business was always set higher than anything else for him. But if my father did this, it’s a way, proof I guess is one way of putting it…it shows he did really care about me. And that means everything. I want one of those supposedly lost to time jewels because it’s something tangible. A connection.”
For a long moment she doesn’t say a word. And then she speaks.
“Love of family,” she says softly. “I get it. We all go to great lengths for that.”
“It’s just having a piece means the world. I didn’t expect to lose a piece of the flagship company if I fail. And that…” I shrug, “I don’t deal with it day to day or anything, but it’s in private hands—the Sinclair hands—with a small part public, and that’s legacy, too. But if I lose my part if this thing goes under, I…I won’t be happy, but it stays in the family. I just don’t have my shares, but I’m sure I can buy them back.”
I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince, or why I’m babbling at her.
But I do know.
“It means everything to me, Scarlett,” I say, finally letting the words out. “Everything.”
“I get that, and you—”
“No, Scarlett.” I get to my feet and start to pace because this is an area I don’t go. “I’ve told you that. But thing is, it means everything to me that you’re doing this.”
“Oh.” Her gaze skittered over me as she smoothed her hands against her thighs once more. Long, slender thighs.
And it comes on me then, what it is I really want to say. This isn’t something I do lightly, or often, or…ever if I’m honest, but…
I stop and look at her. “Scarlett, thing is, I wanted you to know that because I do get what things are worth. I work a lot. I don’t believe in love, but it does mean everything to me. And I know the next part with this interview might be difficult. I think, though, we can do it. Because I really like you.”
She staring at me like I’ve grown two heads and there’s something in her gaze, something complicated that’s like heat and darkness and light and hope and despair. I’m reading into things, I know.
“The attraction is real, the one I have for you. And after this…who knows, maybe we can still see each other.” I’ve commandeered the conversation, I realize. I look at her.
“What was it you wanted to say?”