Page 64 of Must Have Been Love

Her jaw twitches as she leans forward. “That was a mix up. I thought it was my turn. When I realized we were both there, Autumn came over and asked me to put my feelings aside for one day. It was hell,” she whispers.

I’m still dying to ask her why she and Mylene don’t talk.

“If you could do it for Autumn can you do it for me?” I give her my best puppy dog eyes, but she still shakes her head.

“Never again. If I die without seeing that woman’s face for the rest of my life I’ll die happy.”

I don’t point out that she must see it every time she looks in the mirror, because that would just be catty, even if it’s true.

“Maybe Mylene won’t be able to come,” I say hopefully. Eileen winces again when I say her sister’s name.

“Oh, she’ll be there. Just to spite me.” She rolls her lips over her teeth, bearing more than a casual resemblance to a rabid dog. “That hussy.”

Before I can make another attempt at reconciliation, she turns on her heel and stomps away. But not before a sleek black sports car drives past her. She stops and stares at it, and I swallow hard because I should have realized that everybody would see him arriving in daylight.

She lifts a brow then carries on walking to her house, and I take a deep breath, readying myself for a Hudson Fitzgerald onslaught.

“No beds, no snuggling, no falling for him,” I mutter to myself.

But I fear it might be too late.

* * *

“So where are we going?” I ask Hudson as he steers me toward the open passenger door of his car. His palm is splayed against my back, which means his skin is touching my skin because I’m wearing a pair of vintage embroidered flares and a white lace cropped blouse. Goosebumps break out over me.

“I told you, it’s a surprise,” he says.

“A good surprise?” I ask, sitting down in the bucket seat. “By the way, why do you have such a nice car on this island? Isn’t it a waste?” I look around at the sleek interior of the car. The console gleams like it’s been polished by an army of elves.

“A waste? Why?” he asks, looking confused.

I pat the smooth-as-butter cream leather seat next to his thick thigh. “This must’ve cost hundreds of thousands. And you probably don’t clock more than five miles a day in it.”

“I drive it to the mainland,” he tells me. “And what makes you think it costs hundreds of thousands?”

“Because it’s a sports car.”

“It’s an affordable sports car,” he says. “A Subaru. I hate to shatter your dreams, but I’m not the kind of guy who throws two hundred thousand dollars down on a car.”

I turn to look at him. He has a smile on his face. I wrinkle my nose at him and he smiles harder.

“Okay, I used to have a Porsche,” he admits, looking sheepish. “But the salty air isn’t great for it. I sold it and bought this.”

Of course he had a Porsche. He probably had a whole army of them. Wait, what’s a collective noun for Porsches? A Pickle?

“And I have the Range Rover, of course. That’s more expensive, but more practical for driving Ayda around. Autumn has that one tonight.”

“How many cars do you have in total?” I ask, still imagining that Populace of Porsches.

“Three. Plus my dad’s old Jag that’s sitting undriveable in the garage at the house. Once I retire I want to restore it.”

There’s a dreaminess to his voice that surprises me. “You want to retire one day?” I ask.

“Doesn’t everybody?” He starts up the engine with a push of a button.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I kind of imagined you being at the helm of your company until your dying day. Falling face first into a pile of unread memos. Like that guy onThe Simpsons.”

“I’m assuming you’re not talking about Homer,” he says, pulling out of his spot and onto the road.

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