Page 77 of That Time I Kissed My Beachfront Boss

Hudson’s reading Wuthering Heights?

And he uses bookmarks?

Gah! My pulse is a throb in my ears. There’s so much blood rushing to my head, I almost don’t hear the knocking.

“Olivia?” Hudson’s voice sounds through the door. “Are you dressed?”

“Almost,” I manage to squeak out. Snatching up the sweatshirt, I quickly haul it over my head trying to ignore the dizzying fog descending over me. But that’s not easy in Hudson’s bedroom, wrapped in his warm, manly scent, and staring down at one of my favorite books on his nightstand.

With a bookmark inside.

I could just die right now, like Cathy Earnshaw.

Wait. No. That story is nothing like Hudson and me. So what if Heathcliff and Hudson both start with an H? That’s where the comparison ends. We aren’t soulmates. Hudson and I are simply two people who work together and who maybe find each other the tiniest bit attractive, but that’s where this tale begins and ends.

Oh, come on, Liv. You can do better than that. Try again.

Okay, fine. Hudson and I are simply two friends with undeniable chemistry who have an easy time talking about stuff we don’t tell other people, but our paths will diverge soon, so the rest really doesn’t matter.

“You can come in,” I say. Hudson opens the door and steps inside. When our eyes meet across the room, my stomach does an entire gymnastics floor routine.

Are you really sticking with that other story, Liv? Try again.

Okay, fine. Hudson and I are good friends with a crackling connection that extends beyond the physical, and I’m tempted to jump into his arms and possibly live there forever, but instead, I’m going to gather my wits, stay in control, finish up my job here, then leave town.

That’s more accurate.

“Thanks for the clothes,” I say, hoping Hudson doesn’t hear the quiver in my words.

A low rumble comes from the back of his throat. His gaze dips from the oversized sweatshirt down to my legs before snapping up again. “I have clean sweatshirts,” he says.

“This one was on your chair, and I didn’t want to snoop, or accidentally end up in your underwear drawer.” I force out a chuckle to emphasize that I didn’t snoop, or accidentally end up in his underwear drawer. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Sure.” He lifts his chin as if he’s intentionally keeping his focus above my head. And that’s when I realize it probably looks like I’ve got nothing on besides his sweatshirt.

“Oh, and I’m wearing these too.” I lift the hem to show him the T-shirt and cut-offs underneath. But I’m not sure this maneuver helps, because his gaze flicks over to the nightstand and back to me. Then his Adam’s apple dips.

Aha.

It’s the books that have his attention, not my bare legs.

I guess he didn’t want me to discover that he collected romances from all three Bronte sisters, and there’s a bookmark in the one I told him he might like. Maybe he thinks I’ll read more into the situation than just … reading. So. Do I say something, or act like I didn’t notice?

I tip my chin, examining his face to figure out what he’s thinking, but his expression is inscrutable. And I just want to … I don’t know. Make him scrutable. Is that a thing?

Can I scrute Hudson Blaine?

“Your room is cozy,” I say. “Nice and homey.” I’m waiting for a reaction. “Are all the guest suites like this?”

He engages in the smallest of shrugs. “Some are bigger. Some are smaller. I took a medium-sized one.”

“Ahh. Just right. Like the three bears.”

His brow drops. “You could say that.”

“Not that you’re Goldilocks,” I add.

“Unless she wears XL sweatshirts.” His mouth crooks. “Then no.”

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