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The latent heat in his words coils around me and I want to say the same to him, but who am I kidding? This man always looks incredible. He can ignite fantasies just by walking into a room.
“Thank you.”
Hudson straightens up and offers me his arm. “Shall we?”
I still have no idea what this is. The building is beautiful, classic, an icon of the cast iron district’s past. But it isn’t a restaurant or shop, and it doesn’t look like some fancied up apartment building.
He leads the way. “I own this building, and we’ll be meeting with a who’s who of the real estate world. More or less. And clients. So do try and keep your mouth under some semblance of control.”
“Me? I’m the modicum of decorum and restraint.” At the narrowed eyed look he gives me accompanied by the low slung smile that says I’m lying, I fight the urge to step on his foot. “And I promise I’ll only call you Mr. Martini Legend once.”
“Just try.”
“I will.” I won’t. I don’t want his wrath upon me. Whatever that might entail.
The door opens, and it’s an unassuming one. I mean, it’s a door. But what’s beyond takes my breath.
A beautiful space awaits of polished floors and wide openness that during the day would let in light, especially the higher up you went with each floor. It’s elegant, tasteful, modern, and yet keeps the charm and history of the building with the exposed beams and arched windows.
I know enough about real estate in New York to know this will probably be sold or rented as a home, and where we are would be the great room if one wanted to put in walls. But right now, it was set up as a playground for an architect and interior designer, and as I took in the people and the discreet staff, a perfect place for some kind of party.
In my head, I go over the emails I took care of that day and realize some of them were for this. The rest would have been in the hands of his receptionist, Georgina, but the people he wanted here I was in charge of—so to speak—in getting here…at different times. And I hope to God I got it all correct.
His hand is on my lower back. It’s both disconcerting and comforting and I don’t know how it can be like that except it is.
My part is simple as we move about the room. Let him chat and get him to the people he wants to talk to and get him out of the conversations he doesn’t.
At first I’m shit at it. A little loud or abrupt, but the pressure of his hand changes and gives me the clues I need. And I’m good at that. Learning fast and adapting. It comes with having to do a million different jobs to make money over the years to keep our little family—mine and Danny’s—afloat. And with my love of training AIs.
When Hudson talks to someone he wants to, his hand isn’t there on my back. But when he’s done, it’s there. Sometimes hard, sometimes soft.
So, I wing it. I’ll jump into conversations to give him an out. I’ll pretend there’s something we need to take care of work related—cell phones are a godsend as long as you remember to keep yours on silent.
This is industry as well as those interested in having this space. And I know there are people here hungry to work for Hudson. Or even poach someone who can’t afford his asking price.
Danny would love this. I want to text him, but I can’t. I mean, what a mess that would all be. So, I keep going, keep smiling and keep longing for when Hudson touches my lower back and murmurs in my ear which person he’d like to talk to next.
Oh, who needs sweet nothings when they have that?
I grab hold of myself as I grab a glass of wine from a passing waiter. This is all pretend. I need to remember that.
Hudson’s talking to some impossibly glamorous woman and hasn’t glanced at me once. And she’s loaded. Used to power and commanding it. I can see that in how she owns the place. Except him. He doesn’t react to her any differently than he does the waiter or anyone else.
Secretly, my inner bitch likes that.
I have problems.
“A penny for them?”
I whirl around and almost spill my drink on the too-handsome man standing there. He’s in a lovely suit, but not up to Hudson’s standards and he’s the kind of good looking that I suspect takes him hours to perfect. But I smile because right now I’m out of the boat and in the water and Hudson isn’t there to steer me, so for all I know this guy’s important.
“Oh, just enjoying the evening,” I say, taking a gulp of the wine.
He smiles the kind of dazzling smile that came from a dentist with a psychotic love of whitener. “I haven’t seen you before. Are you one of us?”
I don’t know what that means. “I’m—”
“We should get out of here. I don’t think Sinclair’s going to talk to us this evening.” The smile doesn’t fade, just turns hard. “Not the little people.”
