Chapter 34
Chapter Thirty-Four
SHE IS HOME
LOUISA
The night must have gone well. Hudson bid on a handful of things, so did I (using his name and wallet of course), so he may have won more than he’s expecting.
I always thought I was the performer in this relationship, but he does to a degree I couldn't have imagined. Work Hudson is different from the At Home Hudson I’ve shared a space with.
Different from my Fake Husband. None of them the Angry Neighbor I created as a character.
He is bold and compelling in every conversation.
Charming in a way that captivates people, and in most conversations, I just tried my best to keep up.
But he kept me tucked into his side the entire time.
Walking out of the gala now towards the car is almost comical.
People pay attention to him, and it’s not just height or sculptural symmetry of his face, criminal jawline, or unfair thick dark eyelashes that hide depth in his eyes that I have become painfully aware of.
(I also had to put falsies on to compete with.) But his ability to maneuver around a crowd and somehow get heads to turn.
It’s not dramatic or loud, but people always turn to look at him.
Women always turn to look at him. A second glance to pocket for later, to think to themselves, do I know him, is he famous, or is he just that good looking?
(It’s the last one.) I’m just a bonus in the line of sight, the accessory that’s free with their purchase.
But I can almost feel what they are thinking.
‘If he’s willing to go home with her, I may still have a chance.
’ Wedding ring be damned. That’s not as self-deprecating as it sounds.
I know how I look, I’m pretty but am the kind of pretty where whoever I’m dating also compliments my personality.
Sometimes I think I look a little too Jane Austen and a little less Instagram.
If you want me to star in a period piece?
I’m your gal. (Except for the center of attention thing.) Stunning, but specific to a time period that doesn’t always have the same mass appeal.
A little too narrow in some places, a little juvenile in others, because while I've been called everything from cute and sexy, to endearing and enchanting, people have to have a preference for me. But him? He’s the universal blood donor of men.
Compatible for everyone. And there's something about being with someone who makes everyone look, that makes it very hard for me to look away. (Not like I was before.)
I feel his hand wrap around my waist as we take our steps, reaching the car that has pulled up in front, the same one that dropped us off. We’re paced surprisingly in sync regardless of the difference in length of stride, and it’s because he seems to have slowed his to match mine.
The driver comes around to get the door, but Hudson waves him off as he reaches for it himself, outstretched to the door handle preparing to open it, showing me more courtesy in this fake relationship than any man has shown me in my years of dating.
“Do you think we were convincing?” I finally ask, trying not to sound pathetic at all.
The idea of him releasing me from his hold and tucking me into the car would end this moment, that has me reaching out for a bit of validation.
Even though we spent the night acting for his colleagues, getting in the car and going home means we will slip out of these public masks of marital bliss, and back into the ones made for self-preservation and selfishness.
This is my problem, not his. Quintessential me.
When a man shows me consistent kindness, I think it might be something, because I’ve never been one to just have that insta-love-at-first-sight kind of experience.
It’s the commitment that eventually knocks on my heart to let me know it's okay. (Even though after all that’s happened, I don’t know that it is.
No matter how well we pretend.) When I speak, I feel his fingertips grip ever so slightly into where they are on my waist, as if my voice caught him off guard.
His face turns to me, clearly distracted as I pull his focus to me instead of whatever else was occupying his mind.
Where my mind has been running back to him since I felt him pressed against me in the dressing room.
He uses the curve of my waist, where his hand is currently seated, to turn me gently until my back is against the car door. His eyes are dark and weighted as they look down towards me, a gaze so strong he could be pouring it down my throat. (And I wish he was.)
“You are perfect,” he says. His voice isn’t the one that fights me in the doorway, it's not the crafted attorney schmoozing everyone around him.
This person is who I have felt, in the early hours of the morning, between the pages of scripts and between my legs.
The man whose face is wanton and hungry, looking at me the way so many people look at him.
His hand leaves the door handle. And moves it to cup the back of my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, as his thumb moves slowly across the height of my cheek. I look around, but there’s no need for him to keep up this act to this degree.
“I don’t think there’s anyone watching, you can stop pretending,” I say.
Breaking silence that’s given the air around us too much room to whisper in my ear.
To fill it with the idea that this man could want me in any way beyond the natural physical response he had when I looked at him and told him I wanted him.
I’m not an idiot (usually.) Men don’t turn down women in a situation like that, especially one like him.
I know that it was a temporary thing. (Like the rest of this.)
There's a sound that comes from his throat as he begins to speak that lassos itself around my ribcage and pulls me closer to him, into his.
“There’s nothing pretend about the way I want you,” he says plainly.
Lowering his mouth to my ear, his breath is warm and drips down my neck as he hovers above my actual skin.
My back is pressed against the car door as my breath increases in speed.
Feeling the weight of him against me as his hand is broad against my lower back.
It pulls my lower half against his as my back bows off the car door despite the fact his lips have not landed anywhere on my skin, yet.
A very hopeful, desperate yet. (Because god do I want him to.) “I’m done pretending. ”
“Then are you going to kiss me?” I ask, as my own hand finds itself pressed against his chest, the fabric of his shirt under the tips of my fingers crisp and soft in the same contrary way I’ve learned he is.
There’s so little space between us, yet the question has him pull back just the smallest distance, just enough to look at me more clearly. But he exhales so deeply I can feel it in my sternum and a desperation in my core for him.
“Would you like that?” he asks as his other hand comes up to find my face.
Our bodies don’t seem to care about any warnings we might have.
My fingers lose their grip on my small beaded purse, it falls to the ground in the same way my grip is slipping from any self-control I have.
Our attention pulled by the fallen bag, landing on the cement curb, he smoothly drops to his knee to retrieve it in a way without ever breaking his gaze from me.
Standing with an achingly painful and slow return to full height, his fingers graze the bare skin of my ankle up my leg as he does.
The fabric of my dress rises as it drapes across his arm as he reaches my thigh, as the wetness gathers between my legs in pleading anticipation.
Our bodies are pressed closer than even a moment before as he places my small vintage purse on the roof of the car, something else in mind for the use of his hands.
The lights from above reflect the grains of amber in his eyes that feel especially visible when he is on fire. I give him the most infinitesimally small nod of agreement, because no matter how small, how invisible, he sees everything about me.
And that’s all it takes.
He kisses me deeply as my back bows into him, my hands gripping his shirt to pull him closer to me in greed.
All the composure we practiced, the near misses that I know he felt, ‘the lapses in judgement,’ the moments I imagined, tossed away under our feet as his lips move against mine with hunger and passion I’ve imagined ineffectively.
Even from my own memory.
This is so much more.
There’s a shift in him that I can only feel with his tongue curling in my mouth, the knots he holds himself tied into are unfurling with the deepening of each kiss. Our breaths are arriving at the same erratic pace as we fulfill every earlier moment we’ve pulled ourselves back from the brink of.
I can feel all of him against me, and know that he would have the same intimate indication of interest if he reached between my legs.
(So I squeeze them closer together.) And like everything, he notices.
His lips pull back with caution, but his forehead drops to mine as he looks at me through thick lashes, behind pupils so close that despite the darkness and depth of color, I can somehow see my reflection, like it's the only thing he can see as well.
We’ve lost ourselves and any regard for this public display. But from all the novels I’ve read, I know one thing for certain, there is absolutely nothing better than an against-the-car-door kiss.