Thirty-One
Rowan
By the time the last guests filter out, the noise still rings in my ears, even though nobody’s left to make it.
Alistair’s already gone, locked away in his office to count the night’s numbers. The catering staff moves through the back, boxing up glasses and half-eaten canapés. Out here, it’s just me, Hudson, and a lot of my own anxiety hanging on the walls around us.
The butterflies in my stomach haven’t quit since Hudson’s hand found my hip four hours ago. I can still feel the exact imprint of his fingers.
Is this where I touched you? Right here?
Who says that to a woman and then spends the next four hours calmly drinking water and discussing art?
Hudson Vaughn, apparently.
Bastard.
He tracked me all night. Every time I turned around, his eyes were on me. I’m so turned on, it’s a miracle I made it through the last hour without losing my mind.
“You survived,” Hudson says, his voice echoing in the empty gallery.
“Barely. I think I lost a piece of my soul to a woman who told me my brushwork reminded her of her therapist’s Rorschach tests.”
His mouth twitches.
I’m sitting on the low platform near the entrance, shoes abandoned beside me.
“How am I looking, Doc? On a scale of fine to total cardiac collapse?”
He comes over and sits beside me, close enough that our knees touch.
“I’d say you’re at a solid needs a nap and a large glass of water.”
“I can’t celebrate with a nap. I’ve sold the room.” I glance out at the walls, at the red dots on every tag. It still doesn’t feel real, even when I look straight at it.
“Okay, tell me,” he says. “How are you going to celebrate?”
“Like I always do.”
“Which is?”
“Breakfast.”
He glances at his watch. “It’s midnight.”
“Exactly.” I stretch my legs out in front of me, wiggling my toes back to life. “Breakfast always tastes better when it’s not actually breakfast.”
“So what, cereal standing over the sink at midnight?”
“God, no.” I scoff at the suggestion. “I’m doing a full stack of pancakes. It’s tradition.”
He nudges me with his shoulder. “You’re in luck.”
“Yeah? Why’s that?”
“I make amazing pancakes.”
Something in my chest does an unhelpful little flip. “You’re going to make me pancakes?”
“Sure.” He leans back on his hands. “On one condition.”
“What is it?”
“I can’t cook shit in your tiny kitchen.”
I jab him with my elbow. “I love my little house.”
“It’s a great house. Deeply charming. Very you. But you’ve got one pan, and I’m fairly sure it’s a wok.”
“So exactly where are you planning to make these famous pancakes?”
“I have a kitchen I can actually stand in.”
I picture it before I can stop myself—his kitchen, his stove, both of us there at one in the morning—and a small, warm flare lights up low in my stomach.
I tut at him instead. “You’re just trying to get me into bed.”
He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
Dr. Hudson Vaughn, human brick wall, is actually at a loss for words.
I push to my feet before he can recover. “Don’t worry, I know what you meant. I do feel sorry for you, though.”
His brows draw together. “Sorry for me? Why?”
I shrug. “There are pros to this illness I have.”
His expression turns wary.
“Beyond the free salt and the excuse to sit down. I’m extremely bendy in bed.”
His shoulders start shaking.
“Are you laughing at my disability?”
“I’m laughing because you just turned it into a sexual sales pitch.”
“Would you rather I list the gastrointestinal complications?”
“No.”
“Dizziness?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose, laughing harder.
“Joint instability?”
“Stop.”
“Oh, you like that, huh? Wait until I tell you about the sexy little compression garments?”
He’s laughing properly now, struggling to catch his breath as his head dips.
I don’t know why that hits me the way it does. Maybe because Hudson doesn’t laugh like this often. It’s warm and deep and completely unguarded.
“Come on,” he says, standing and holding out his hand for me to take. “Before Roger hears you speaking to another man like that.”
“Roger loves me.”
His thumb moves over the side of my hand.
“Everyone loves you, Rowan,” he murmurs. “That’s the problem.”
My heart stops doing anything useful.
“Hudson?”
He keeps walking. “Pancakes, Rowan.”
I let him pull me along beside him, and for once in my life, I don’t have a single smart thing to say.