Page 107 of My Worst Pucking Enemy

I wander over to a display of ballerina mannequins set up against a painted Degas background and inhale deeply. Even the air here is different. It smells sweet and expensive.

I pause, and then suck in another breath through my nostrils. I’m glad they don’t charge for breathing in here; I’d be in debt for life.

They could bottle the air and sell it, though. They could just call it “H” and charge a fortune for it. Maybe I should suggest it to them and ask for a commission.

I inhale again.

“Are you okay?” a voice says behind me. I spin around. Paxton is standing three feet away from me. He’s dressed up too, wearing a blue linen suit with a checked shirt and green tie. Something about coming to Hudson’s just makes you feel shabby if you don’t dress to the nines.

“Paxton!” I protest, stumbling back a step. “Do not sneak up on me like that.”

His brows draw together in a frown. “You were breathing kind of heavy. I was concerned.”

“I was not,” I say indignantly. “I was regular breathing. What am I doing here? What is this magical solution to our problem?”

“First I need to buy you lunch, because the star attraction isn’t ready for us yet.”

“Who’s the star attraction?”

He cocks his head to the side, and for a moment I think he’ll play coy, just like he used to do with our fake dates.

“Mr. Hudson,” he says. “He’s in a meeting, but he’ll be available shortly.”

“Ooh, you’re friends with Mr. Hudson. Aren’t you fancy.”

He nods. “Yes, you should be very impressed. Would you like my autograph?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly impose. Also, you can’t buy me lunch; we’re not dating.”

He claps his hand to his chest dramatically, looking wounded. “Of course we’re not. I just have an aversion to letting a lady pay for lunch. My parents raised me to be a gentleman.”

“Well... I do love the café here,” I admit.

I let him lead me past beautiful displays of mannequins dressed in filmy scraps of fabric that I am sure must cost more than a year’s rent in a standard Manhattan apartment. I stop and read the price tag on one of them, and then shake my head in disbelief.

“Shut the front door,” I mutter.

“Do you like it?” Paxton says, looking interested.

“I do, and do not offer to buy it for me. I would never wear something like that because I’d be afraid I might sweat on it or just breathe on it. Who buys these things?”

“Mason shops here,” Paxton shrugs. “I do, sometimes.”

“My point exactly.”

We resume our slow meander through the store. I never hurry when I’m at Hudson’s. I like to walk slowly and drink it all in.

We pass a display of two animated mannequins dancing and twirling to classical music. I pause to watch as the man dips the woman, the two of them moving in perfect harmony.

I avoid looking at Paxton. I want what those mannequins have, but it’s easy for them; they’re machines. Flesh-and-blood relationships are too complicated and terrifying.

Finally we reach the café, which has a charming Christmas-in-July theme with all kinds of frosty confections on sale, which works because it’s hot as balls outside.

We sit down at the counter, and a waitress dressed like an elf puts down two menus in front of us. She’s got little elf ears and a hat with tinkling bells.

“The Winona’s Sweet Peach Pie is especially delicious,” she tells me. “The peaches are from Georgia.”

“Isn’t Winona married to Blake Hudson?” I ask. She twinkles a smile at me.

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