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“Why are you dressed like that?” Danny sets down his Coke and looks at me with a frown.
“A temp job,” I say, and then I turn to Amber. “I need a classy outfit. Help.”
The plea for help is real because Hudson thinks I live at a very fancy Park Avenue South apartment building where Sarah lives. So I need to get there before he does.
Dressed in the peacock blue silk dress Amber swears is pure class, I hastily apply makeup, and Danny crams into the tiny bathroom and frowns behind me.
“Why are you here, anyway?”
“Where are you going?” he counters.
“Out.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is. You asked, I answered.” I toss my hair, hitting him in the face and then set down the mascara and push him out of the bathroom into the living room. “It’s a work thing.”
“Well, at least one of us has prospects,” he says.
And my heart squishes in. He’s my brother and I love him. “It’ll get better, Danny. We’ll save your business. Build it. And have people coming and wanting places from you.”
“I only stopped by because the one place I’ve got right now is bad. That—” He stops and I know what he was going to say. He was screwed over and that’s burned him and his reputation. But that is why I’m doing this. “It’s got actual rats. I told the couple not to take it.”
“Danny, good for you.”
“No. I should have lied.”
“You’re the last honest realtor out there.”
“Yeah, unlike the Sinclairs of the world. Then again, they’re loaded.”
I bite my lip because I can’t tell him. I’ve signed away everything. But it’s for him. “I have to go, but…but trust me, okay?”
And I hope to God those words are true.
Running in heels is not a thing. Whoever thought it was is a demon. But I do it and manage not to fall flat on my face as I hobble-run to the apartment building I’m now pretending is home. My place in Brooklyn isn’t going to cut it.
I’m running late because of the trains, and of course, Hudson Sinclair’s the type of man who thinks on time is late and that means I’m in deep, deep trouble. He’ll find out, and—
I’m here.
The doorman eyes me suspiciously and I go for a smile and a hello, but I’m holding my side, wheezing—you’d think riding about makes me fitter than I am, but…heels. I hold up a finger, trying to get it together when someone appears in front of me.
Every single nerve ending is alight. And the air is suddenly thick and heavy and alive with awareness and I know without looking that it’s Hudson.
I look up. Even in heels, I’m nowhere near as tall as him. And I wheeze out a hello.
“You look like you ran a marathon. Traffic held me up. I’m late.”
He isn’t. He’s about five minutes early and by some miracle, I manage to arrive a minute before him. But I nod and wave a hand like I’m letting him off the hook.
“I did some exercise.” I take in a breath that is edging towards normal. Only now my heartbeat is erratic because he’s there, smelling divine, like that soft leather, honey, and lavender, and I wonder how many women ask if they can lick him, just to see if he tastes as good as he smells. “While I was waiting.” I take another breath. “I have to work to keep this up.”
I wave a hand down along my body, knowing it’s nothing to write home about, but hey, maybe I’m a rich girl with delusions.
Hudson slides a hand under my elbow and I shiver right down to my toes in the shiny stack black heels. My bag bangs against my hip on the other side of me as I stumble. He has magic fingers. They seem to elicit an insane response every time he touches me.
“I thought,” he says as our gazes crash and connect, and I almost swear there’s humor dancing there in those blue depths, “we could go to Eaton West.”
