Page 9 of Mr. Big Shot

No, this is where I belong, in a nice, orderly specialty, one where you cross a lot of t’s and dot a lot of i’s—all from the confines of a quiet desk. I just…have to make it to that desk first.

Hudson storms down the hall up ahead like it’s his goal to lose us. I keep up, no problem—I’m still angry, after all, so there’s a lot of energy to burn—but poor Kendra is basically having to all-out sprint.

She curses as her bag slips off her shoulder and a few of her things tumble to the carpet. I turn back to help her, grabbing a tube of lipstick before it can continue rolling away, but she wrenches it out of my hand before I can offer it to her.

“I don’t need your help,” she bites out snidely.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to respond with something equally rude, but then where would we be?

Instead, I push to stand and leave her there to collect her belongings on her own. Hudson hasn’t slowed his pace up ahead. I watch as a young associate walks out of a door to the right just in time to cut directly into Hudson’s path. The associate’s eyes go wide as he halts, pivots, then darts right back into the room he came from. It’d be funny if not for the fact that I’m in no position to laugh at the moment.

Finally, Hudson reaches a glass door through which I can see a formal reception area. This is Hudson’s corner of the 70th floor, where he and his team all work together. There’s a neat row of gold plaques bolted into the wall beside the door.

Hudson Rhodes, Partner

Sophie Smith, Senior Associate

Bethany Quinn, Senior Associate

There are more names, but I don’t have time to read them before Hudson yanks the door open for us. I’m right behind him, but Kendra hasn’t fully caught up since her mishap with her bag.

It gives him and me an awkward few seconds to stand there, beside one another, absolutely painfully quiet while we wait for her.

How would I normally act when meeting a partner for the first time? That’s easy; I’d be deferential and polite, so…I dig deep for those emotions as I peer over at Hudson out of the corners of my eyes.

He’s not looking my way. To him, I don’t exist. He’s skewering Kendra as she scurries the last few feet toward us.

That’s fine. I take the opportunity to size him up while his annoyance is focused elsewhere. He’s wearing a black suit and a pale blue tie. Everything looks to be designer. Ho-hum. Can’t fault him there. I look down at his watch tucked partway beneath his crisp white cuff. The pronounced veins in his hands. Rather large hands…though of course they would be. He’s tall, much taller than me, which makes him hilariously huge compared to Kendra. I’m smiling at the mental image when his eyes slowly slice to me as if he’s been aware of my attention this whole time.

I almost stumble back from the intensity of his gaze.

“I’m Scarlett El—”

His brusque voice cuts me off. “I know who you are.”

My brows furrow. “We’ve never met,” I clarify. I’m sure of it.

“You look just like your brother,” he explains.

He takes me in for another moment—assessing, no doubt—and then Kendra finally reaches us.

“I’m sorry! My bag spilled.”

Ignoring her apology, Hudson waves us through, and we enter his domain. I’ll be honest, it’s less hostile than I was expecting. No burning hellfire. No extreme blast of heat. Not even a single stray black cat. On the contrary, there’s a light floral scent in the air and beautiful furnishings artfully arranged in the sitting area, but I doubt Hudson had anything to do with the hospitable environment.

Past a series of offices, he knocks on an open door, drawing the attention of a tall black-haired woman sitting at her desk.

“Sophie, they’re yours, though I’d like a quick word with Scarlett before you start.”

The woman—Sophie Smith, I assume, from her plaque on the wall—nods and invites Kendra to come into her office.

Hudson looks at me and says with all the enthusiasm of a funeral director that we can go to his office down the hall. On the way, we pass more offices before we dead-end at another smaller sitting area, this one circular. His own personal space. There’s a coffee station on one side and a desk on the other. We walk past Hudson’s receptionist, a tiny older woman wearing a pink wool blazer and matching skirt. She looks up as we pass, her pale blue eyes assessing me over the top rim of her glasses. She smiles then goes back to sipping her tea.

Interesting.

At the threshold of his office, Hudson allows me to enter first. I catch the subtle scent of his cologne, and then he shuts the door behind us and I get sidetracked. I survey the space quickly because I’m nosey and god knows when I’ll get another chance to be in here. I fully plan on rectifying this wrong the first chance I get. By the end of the day, I’ll be on Amaya’s service and Hudson will be somewhere, I don’t know…weeping, probably.

His walls are paneled and lacquered in blue-gray paint that I love. His desk is made of deep brown wood—an antique from the looks of it. There’s a wall of built-ins housing what looks to be an entire law library. Across from that there’s a door that likely leads to a personal bathroom. Ah, the perks of being a partner.

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