Page 18 of Off the Record

The kid pockets the money and heads out. Hudson moves away from the computers and pulls black containers of food from the bag. Pasta topped with sliced blackened chicken, thick sourdough bread covered in mushrooms with a dark sauce, asparagus roasted and drizzled with balsamic vinegar. I’m salivating.

“My friend started this restaurant a few years ago. He’s still getting off the ground, but everything he makes is fantastic. I hope you’re hungry.”

I look from the heaven-scented food to Hudson, wondering where the catch is. Why me? Why this dinner? Is this how he acquires his victims? Draw them in under the guise of working together, make them feel important, like their writing matters, then ply them with delicious food until they succumb to his masculine wiles?

Well, crap. If that’s the case, it’s working. But I’m smarter than all the girls I’ve been stalking on Instagram who had been seen with him, because I’m aware of what’s going on. I’ll eat the food, absorb the praise, and go home alone.

I have to admit, his methods are subtle. He hasn’t flirted with me much at all. Not really.

“I’m starving,” I tell him, taking a fork and digging into the sourdough gravy thing. Holy mushrooms, this is delicious. I must moan aloud, because Hudson chuckles.

“I’ve told Pete to add it to his menu full time, but he won’t do it. Keeps it seasonal.”

“That’s a disgrace,” I say around another bite. “Is Pete single? I think I’m falling in love.”

“Happily engaged,” he says.

“What a shame,” I say around another bite.

Hudson watches me. “I need to learn how to make this stuff.”

My fork jerks against the mushroom toast, but I do my best to pretend I’m not affected by him.

Hudson grins. His smile is so wide and authentic, it knocks me back a little. A tendril of attraction buries itself deep within me, and I do my best to smother it, focusing on the food instead.

Part of me—just a tiny, itty-bitty part—wants to believe that maybe all those women were in the wrong, and maybe Hudson isn’t the player I thought he was. A girl can dream, right?

six

Saturday morning,I wake late. Hudson and I had lingered over dinner, sharing every dish and talking easily about our families and growing up in Tennessee. I kept waiting for the suave flirt to show up, but the more I came to know Hudson, the more normal he became. He’d opted not to join us at Whiskey Sage, so I left him fairly late to meet up with Simone and Andrea and stayed out much too long with them. Now that the sun is streaming through my open drapes, highlighting dust mites and spearing my eyes with bright light, I wish I’d gone home when Hudson and I had separated last night, too.

I check my phone to see three messages waiting for me.

Hudson

Are you busy today?

This question is strictly for work purposes, so I’m still not breaking HR rules.

I might have someone in mind for next week’s issue.

I check the timestamps and see that the messages rolled in an hour ago. I sit up quickly, throwing off my blankets, and run to turn on the shower.

Paisley

What did you have in mind?

Hudson

You’ll see. If you send me your address, I’ll pick you up in thirty minutes.

Paisley

Make it an hour?

Hudson

Okay.

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