Page 18 of Ella Gets the D
I won’t deny the lure, but it’s starting to get dull for reasons I can’t explain.
Kendi whistles. “Is the bachelor ready to come off the market?” He chuckles into his glass. “Moms will be chuffed.”
I groan. “Do not mention her. She probably heard you and is planning an arranged marriage as we speak.”
Quiet as it’s kept, this is the first time I’ve been out in a minute. I like staying in. Sometimes with company, but mostly without.
His snort morphs into full-on laughter. It’s not that damn funny. “Relax, bruv. I was only taking the piss. Nothing wrong with wanting to stay in the house. Speaking of which.” He looks at his watch. “I better crack on.”
My lips twitch. Two years ago, Kendi would have been the first person on the dance floor and the last to leave—with a woman on each arm. Then he met Chi, and everything changed. “Tell the future missus I said hi.”
We dap each other up. “Come over for dinner sometime,” he says.
“Bet.”
Minutes knit into an hour of scrolling on my phone. There’s no game tomorrow, which presents the rare opportunity to sleep in and not skim through pages of contracts. I’m lost in an email on the couch when a server places a bottle of water on the side table. “Thank you.”
She stands between my legs. “I get off in an hour, in case you want a nightcap.”
I crane my neck and lean into upholstered pillows, taking in full lips and auburn hair that frames a heart-shaped face. Her white dress cascades to cleavage she skims with her fingers. My gaze roves over rich brown eyes and prominent cheekbones. She is beautiful.
The attraction is there, but the desire isn’t. I surprise the both of us when I graciously decline and take my ass home.
Chapter 7
Ella
Six hours of sleep, a pool of drool on my pillow, and a mild hangover later, I’m on my way back to my in-laws’ to get Haile and Jackson.
Morgan and I hydrated with water until Mateo came to collect Grier. We fanned ourselves with cocktail napkins like school-girls before calling it a night. I still have a headache but look presentable as a woman about to visit her future ex-husband’s parents after knocking back a few cocktails the night before.
Iron gates part on my approach to the last home on the long, tree-lined street. It’s more like a compound, though no armed guards lurk in the shadows. The house is over-the-top on its own and sits pretty on acres of land fenced away from the rest of civilization.
Over the years, the Hudsons purchased the surroundingfiveproperties. For privacy, and so Charles Sr. can play the real-estate edition of Whose Is Bigger? He never misses the chance to turn up his nose at his neighbors’ single-acre plots to his six.
The annual soirees hosted here are the talk of Falls Church. People rearrange their travel plans for the chance to boastabout attending an exclusive Hudson event. I could pay a full year’s rent selling my access to the highest brown-nosing bidder. That’s assuming Charles’s parents don’t electrify the fence now that we’re divorcing.
My SUV rolls along the concrete to the custom-built colonial mansion. Flowers are blooming around the fountain in the middle of the circular driveway. I go to the far side of the home, as I always do, and find a spot in the guest parking area.
Yes, there are three designated spaces for us commoners to use, daughter-in-law included. Additional parking, for staff and overflow, is down the gravel trail and requires a golf cart for the return trip.
This house is obscene.
I pull down the visor to touch up my hair and add a nude lip color.
Mrs. Hudson will be ready for tea with the first family in a dress suit and pearls, even if it’s eight thirty in the morning on a Saturday. The best she’ll get from me today is an oversized boyfriend shirt, jeans, and black loafers.
Stone pavers guide me to the sound of laughter in the backyard. I pass the six-car garage and stairs that lead to the basement. A private patio comes into view. It lacks casual seating but has an L-shaped outdoor kitchen for the hired help who work the many parties here. There’s enough room to fit a hundred people at tables on the tiled floor without disrupting the manicured lawn.
I follow the trail beyond the rose bushes and stop. Jackson and Haile run around the two-story cedar playground without a care in the world. Hints of auburn from their textured brown curls catch the sunlight above the canopy of pine trees. The sight of the cottage-style structure, which has three swings, a slide, and a fire pole, isn’t what makes me gasp. Well, it did three years ago, when Katharine had it installed for Jackson when we movedto Falls Church. I expected Charles’s father to tear it down with his bare hands, but my mother-in-law made sure that didn’t happen.
She’s full of surprises. Like how agile she is chasing after my children right now—which is what makes me gasp.
Katharine Hudson runs after her grandchildren with the biggest grin I’ve ever seen on her face. Golden white strands fall from her once-perfect bun as she speeds up to wrap her arms around Haile. My four-year-old squeals at the gentle hands that pull her into a hug just as Jackson changes course to run full speed at his grandmother.
No. No!
I yell, “Easy!” right before impact, but it’s too late.
