“Scarlett, did you finish that second draft for me?” Sophie asks just when I think I’m in the clear.

  Ugh.

  I squeeze my eyes closed, take a deep breath, and then turn with a perfect smile. “I did, but I was going to glance over it one more time at home before I send it back to you. I’ll have it back no later than 8:00 p.m., if that’s okay?”

  She nods in approval. “That’s fine. Thanks.”

  Hudson watches this entire exchange, his eyes fixed on me. I don’t look at him once before turning on my heels and heading toward the elevators.

  It feels wonderful until it doesn’t. That comedown happens so fast my shoulders actually slump. By the time I kick my apartment door closed, I feel utterly defeated.

  Moira senses how little fight I have left in me. She doesn’t even swat me away when I try to pet her head. She just sits there, probably thinking I’m pathetic, but at least I get the comfort of touching her for my allotted three seconds.

  “Hungry?”

  She meows, and I get to feeding her. Then I shower and put on my softest pajamas and text my trainer to see if it’d be possible for him to rework me into his schedule again. It’s not ideal, but if I leave the office around dinnertime and get in a session with him at his gym, I could work from home afterward to maintain my billable hours and not have to bump into Hudson in the Elwood Hoyt gym anymore. It’s the only way forward.

  The next day, there are flowers sitting on my desk when I walk in. I don’t even know what to think when I first see them sitting there, an overwhelming mixture of green hydrangeas and pink peonies that must have cost the sender a fortune, that’s for sure. I frown as I step closer and inspect them.

  There’s no note, which I find incredibly annoying because they could be from anyone. My mom and dad? Jasper? (Ew.) Hudson? (More ew.)

  Kendra’s no help, of course. I ask if she saw who delivered them.

  “No” is the only response I get, and there’s a lot of attitude infused in that single syllable.

  Because I don’t yet know if they’re the embodiment of good or evil, I put the flowers on the floor in the corner. I can’t throw them away, but I also can’t look at them all day.

  At 2:00 p.m., I have to join Kendra and a few other associates for a conference call with one of our clients. McNealand is a large shipping company interested in acquiring an equally large maritime manufacturing company. If they pursue the deal, we’ll all be part of the acquisition team.

  Hudson is already sitting at the head of the conference table talking to Bethany and Sophie when I walk in. I claim a seat far away from him.

  “You won’t be able to hear way over there.”

  Hudson’s voice sends a cascade of goose bumps down my spine.

  My initial instinct is to argue, and for the record, I do have about ten comebacks on the tip of my tongue, but then I dutifully scoot down a few chairs and take a seat in the middle of the conference table instead. Kendra—who walked in behind me—steals the spot beside Sophie and strikes up a conversation like she’s the nicest person in the world. Who is she really? This person? Or the vile being I have to deal with day in and day out?

  As I stay perfectly still, my attention down on my hands, a few more senior associates trickle in and the conference table fills up. A guy named Nathan, who I’ve met on a few occasions and seems harmless enough, sits beside me and accidentally nudges my elbow with his chair as he sits down.

  “Sorry.”

  I smile. “No, it’s fine.”

  A second later he curses and thunks the table with his fingers. “Damn. I forgot my coffee.”

  I hesitate for a moment. Then, “How are you ever going to survive?”

  He chuckles, and Hudson clears his throat. I roll my eyes. We haven’t started yet; it’s not like the conference room is dead quiet.

  I peer up to see Hudson looking at me. Navy suit. Matching tie. Crisp white shirt. Annoyed expression. Perfect lips. Scruff.

  I wish he’d shave.

  I wish he’d stop looking at me like that.

  Like I’ve done something wrong.

  I mouth, “Stop,” and his expression only darkens.

  “How are you settling in?” Nathan asks me.

  I turn away from Hudson and smile at my seatmate. He has to be in his early thirties, but he’s still hanging on to a perpetual baby face, ruddy cheeks and all. “Oh…fine, I suppose. How long have you been here?”

  His brows shoot up when he realizes the answer. “Eight years.”

  “Was your first year rough?”

  He laughs as he remembers it. “It was the hardest year of my life. I gained like ten pounds and broke up with my girlfriend and nearly got fired a few times.”

  “But you survived,” I point out with a supportive smile.

  He nods and smooths his hand down his tie. “And you will too.”

  His encouragement makes me feel a little lighter right up until Hudson takes charge of the meeting, and for the better part of an hour, I’m forced to listen to his discussions with our client. Everyone in the room is furiously taking notes, and I do the same. Even in the current circumstances, the acquisition sounds exciting, and I won’t slack off. I have to separate my work from my real life.

  I wish I could avoid Hudson altogether, but he’s the one talking, the one in charge. It’d be weird if I kept my head down the whole time, so I brace myself then peer down the conference table. Getting to look at him for so long, uninterrupted, makes me elated and enraged all at once. It would be satisfying to find him tired and pale, a shadow of his usual self. But he’s so healthy-looking, robust and strong, like he could withstand anything. In certain moments, when his jaw tics or his hand brushes his lips absentmindedly—despite trying my hardest not to—I can’t help but recall blips of Saturday night, fleeting memories that carry so much emotion with them. Each one makes me wince and fidget in my chair.

  Like he knows exactly what I’m thinking, Hudson meets my gaze on one such occasion. He looks so frustrated now, but I know what he looks like when he’s drugged with lust, soothed and sensual. I know how those lips turn up at the sides in moments of joy, how that mouth feels between my legs.

  I blink and look away, ashamed of my dirty thoughts. I was doing so well until now. It’s Hudson’s fault.

  Thankfully, the call with McNealand doesn’t last much longer, and I shoot to my feet the moment Hudson dismisses us. Nathan is saying something, asking me a question, but I don’t hear it because Hudson has just called my name.

  “Scarlett.”

  It slices through the air and lands like an arrow in my heart.

  There’s no reason he would need to talk to me, no reason to call me out in front of everyone. But I can’t ignore him. That would look even more strange, so I steel myself with a deep breath, nod goodbye to Nathan, retrieve my laptop, and head down toward Hudson’s end of the conference table.

  He’s finishing up a conversation with Bethany. It’s clear I’m meant to wait in the background like a servant until he’s good and ready to talk to me. I decide the flowers in my office are getting shredded no matter who sent them, just on the off chance it was him.

  Bethany walks away, and Hudson turns to look at me.

  The air whooshes out of me. I can’t stand the effect he has on me. It’s too much power for one person. Does he realize?

  His expression has cooled. Not that it matters—I have enough anger in me for the two of us.

  “The flowers. Were they from you?”

  He looks to the door, confirming we’re alone.

  There’s a glass wall on the hallway-facing side of the conference room, so even though the door is shut, people can look in and see us. I’m glad we’re not behind an opaque wall. It’s better if we have to behave like we’re in public.

  “It’s the start of an apology,” he confirms. “I owe you flowers and more.”

  I narrow my eyes, wanting to be crystal clear. “For sleeping with me even though I asked you to?”

  His mouth tightens into a disapproving line. His gaze rakes over me, not lasciviously but with reverent care, like he’s looking for physical signs of distress. He won’t find any. I’m practically dressed in armor. I’ve picked my blackest dress—the one I feel most powerful in.

  “I need to apologize for taking advantage of a situation. I should have never gone to your apartment.”

  My breakfast turns sour in my stomach. I don’t want to hear any of this. “Right. Well, good talk.”

  I’m about to turn and leave, but then he stops me dead in my tracks when he says, “I need you to hold up your end of the bargain.”

  Excuse me, sir?

  A caustic laugh bubbles out of me. “Hold up my end of the bargain? Be glad I haven’t mowed you down with my car.”

  Oddly, my threat eases the worry lines on his forehead. He likes when I’m sassy. Unfortunately, I can’t force down the urge just to spite him. I am who I am.

  He ignores me and continues on, “My mom’s birthday is Saturday. I’ll pick you up around lunchtime.”

  “I’d rather eat glass.”

  “I’ll see if she can add it to the menu. Be ready at 11:15 a.m.”

  “No. You didn’t hold up your end of the bargain either, asshole. Where’s my grade, huh?” I hold up my finger as if just now remembering something. “Oh right! You ran out of my apartment before you gave it to me!”

  He looks so troubled, so remorseful. It’s the last expression I want to see on his handsomely smug face. Doesn’t he realize that?!

  “I would take it all back if I could.”

  He doesn’t understand how much those words wound me.

  “Great,” I respond flatly. “Thank you for that. I feel so much better now. You mind if I get back to work now or would you like to keep annoying me?”

  He doesn’t balk at my attitude. He stays resolute and firm. “Saturday.”

  “No.”

  “Saturday, Scarlett.”

  If not for that glass wall, I’d flip the cocky bastard off as I walked away. As it is, I just have to imagine doing it, which is only half as satisfying.

  When I get back to my office, I look down at the flowers and notice the tip of a tiny card poking through the top of the blooms. I didn’t catch it before, but now I bend down and yank it out.

  There’s no signature, just three handwritten words in scratchy black ink on thick cream cardstock.

  You were perfect.

  My lip wobbles.

  My chest squeezes.

  I tear the note in two and then throw it in the trash.

  Kendra’s looking over here because I guess I’ve been muttering to myself or something, but I just stare at her like, What?! and she quickly returns her focus to her own desk.

  I’m not going Saturday.

  Hudson will have to find some other idiot to take home to meet his mommy.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Hudson

  I royally messed up with Scarlett, but that doesn’t mean we can’t fix things. I’m certain of that. She might want me to walk off the face of the planet, never to be seen or heard from ever again, but I can’t let that happen. I’ll fight for us. I’ll right my wrong and get us back on track…whatever that track may be. I’ll know it when we get there, I think.

  I knock on Scarlett’s apartment door at 11:15 a.m. on Saturday morning, just like I promised I would. Moira meows on the other side as Scarlett’s footsteps draw near.

  “Did you order something, Moira? I swear to god if you pressed buttons on my phone again when I was in the shower—”

  Her lock unlatches and then she whips open the door.

  She’s standing there in a thigh-length ratty t-shirt and no pants. Her hair is mostly falling out of a lopsided bun on top of her head, and her face is completely makeup-free. If the circumstances were different, if she wouldn’t drive a knife straight through my heart if I tried it, if we weren’t all wrong for each other, I’d lean in and kiss her. That’s my first impulse upon seeing her like this, disheveled and cute.

  She doesn’t even say anything. There’s not a hint of shock on her face. She looks at me standing there like she’s bored to tears by my presence, then she promptly tries to shut the door in my face. I block it and push it open.

  “Security,” she shouts half-heartedly before giving up altogether and walking away. “Or better yet, I’ll just call the cops. Moira, where’s my phone?”

  Moira comes right to me, meowing at my feet until I bend down to pick her up.

  “Moira, attack.”

  Moira doesn’t listen to Scarlett. She nuzzles her little head underneath my chin, using my scruff to her advantage. I scratch her right behind her ears until she purrs.

  “God, you two are pathetic,” Scarlett sneers.

  I smile. “She likes me. Does she like everyone?”

  Scarlett doesn’t answer that. She crosses her arms over her chest, props her hip against the kitchen island, and waits for me to explain myself.

  I set Moira back down on the ground then deliver the news. “I’m here to take you to my mom’s birthday party.”

  She doesn’t miss a beat. “Give her my condolences.”

  “Scarlett, you’re going.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I see you got my flowers.”

  They’re on her kitchen island, in a place of honor.

  She sees me notice them, walks over, and swipes them right off the counter into the trash, vase and all. “I forgot to throw them away the other day.”

  I smile. “Get changed.”

  “Are you hard of hearing, old man? I’m. Not. Going.”

  I walk past her into the bedroom on the right. It’s neat and tidy and it smells just like her. There’s more personality in this one room than there is in my whole house. She has framed artwork covering a whole wall, stacks of coffee table books beside framed family pictures. She has that white fluffy bedding that looks like it’d be as soft as a cloud. I’d keep looking around, but I’m on a mission.

  Her closet is as orderly as the rest of her apartment. I pass over her work clothes and land on a section of dresses. I have no idea what she’d prefer to wear, but I know I love her in blue, so I grab a pale blue dress off its hanger and bring it out into the living room.

  Scarlett’s on the couch, underneath a throw blanket, watching a recorded episode of Dateline, totally unbothered by the fact that I’m in her apartment. On screen, the reporter tells a gruesome story of dismembered bodies found stuffed into wooden barrels on some farm in Arkansas. I suspect Scarlett is getting ideas for what to do with me, and she confirms it when she asks how tall I am.

  “Six three.”

  She frowns at the screen. “Right. Well I’d probably need two barrels then.”

  I toss the dress at her and it lands on her lap with a plop.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your outfit. Where’s your hairbrush?”

  “Are you saying my hair isn’t fine the way it is?”

  I narrow my eyes like I’m studying it. “I’m saying it’s fine if you think it’s fine.”

  She reaches for her remote and turns up the volume.

  “Authorities assumed the murders took place the night of November 5th, but—”

  I check my watch. “We need to be in the car in fifteen minutes if we’re going to be there on time.”

  “Well good.” She points to the door. “If you leave now and hurry down the stairs, you should have no problem.”

  “Scarlett. I will haul you out of this apartment over my shoulder if I have to.”

  “I’d like to see you try.”

  I arch my brow, and she groans angrily and throws the blanket off her legs so she can stand and confront me. I’m so used to dealing with her in high heels at work I forget how small she actually is. She walks right up to me and pokes me in the chest with her finger.

  “Listen up. You don’t get to wreak havoc on my life and then expect me to hop to it when you come calling. You can drag me to your mom’s house kicking and screaming, but I’m not going to play along with your schemes. I’ll tell your mom the truth.”

  “Fine. Do it. Now get dressed and let’s go.”

  I’m not worried about her threats. Oddly enough, I don’t really care what she does. I just want her in that car, whatever way I can get her there. I know it might be more respectful to give Scarlett the space she’s asking for, but it feels imperative that I push for more. We’re at a crossroads, and if I let her have her way, that might be it. Whatever we are, it’ll be done, for good. I can’t let that happen.

  “Give me one good reason why I should do anything for you after the way you left things on Saturday night.”

  “Scarlett, I—”

  She holds up her hand. “No, actually, don’t start. I don’t want to hear your pathetic excuses. It’ll only enrage me and Moira. She hates bullshit.”

  “Fine. I won’t get into it. But truthfully, I need you.”

  My solemn tone gives her pause. I can see her weighing her next words, trying to decide if she wants to put in an order for some wooden barrels or not. She owes me nothing. I know that. I’ve thought a lot about Saturday night, and I regret so much. But the crippling guilt I felt immediately after sleeping with Scarlett has given way to a convoluted, tangled mess of longing and regret and remorse and, worst of all, desire. I know I should stay away from her. I should right this wrong, and yet here I stand, in her apartment, my hands fisted at my sides, my attention pinging off every one of her delicate features I wish I could touch. An apology is on the tip of my tongue, but I hold my breath and stay quiet, giving her a moment.

  She looks away and frowns at the TV. Then, with a sigh that seems to originate from the very depths of her soul, she reaches down, grabs the remote, and turns off the show. I listen to her mumbling under her breath as she walks away. She’s really not happy with me, but she relents to my request, and by “relents”, I mean she gets ready and allows me to lead her downstairs without causing a scene that would draw the attention of local authorities.