Page 24 of Mr. Big Shot

“Why don’t I—”

Bethany’s already waving her hand for me to get on with it. “Order, yes! Whatever. Just get something here ASAP.”

I go with pizza and salads from my favorite place down the street, and I charge it to the company card Bethany hands me. Firms like Elwood Hoyt are happy to pay for a $12 slice of pepperoni pizza while you continue working overtime helping to make them millions upon millions of dollars, so I go overboard. I make sure everyone has a fresh drink, and I tack on a bunch of appetizers and a few dessert options because who doesn’t want an ooey-gooey brownie fresh out of the oven after having ingested enough grease to require a truckload of Tums?

I add a rush delivery fee, and when my phone chimes, I run down with an empty supply cart and meet the delivery guy at the entrance.

“Did you uh…order all this?” The stoned teenager can’t comprehend how little ol’ me could need this much pizza. Now that I’m seeing it, it’s a lot. Oh well.

I sign the bill and help him load everything up on the cart.

“Please tell me you brought the plates and silverware I requested.”

If not, I’ll have a mutiny on my hands.

“Yeah, it’s all in there.”

Perfect. I tip him generously then cart the food to the 70th floor, trying not to salivate from all the delicious smells surrounding me during my trip up in the elevator.

My reappearance is met with what could only be described as the reaction Jesus might expect to get on his homecoming.

“OH MY GOD.”

“FUCKING HELL YES.”

“MOVE!”

They can’t get to me—or my pizza—fast enough.

I start opening boxes, explaining the options. “That one is meat lovers, this one’s margherita.”

I pass out plates and drinks, toss the salads, and get everyone in the sitting area taken care of before I start loading up plates and bringing them into Hudson’s office.

There are four attorneys inside. Two work from his couch, using the coffee table as a desk. Another one is spread out at a side table that was covered in achievement awards yesterday. Now those sit on the ground. Hudson sits behind his desk on a call, tilted back in his chair, tossing his stress ball up into the air over and over again in quick succession so he can catch it and continue. He clocks my arrival with predatorial precision. His brown eyes lock onto me and then narrow slightly.

My stomach flips. He’s sans suit jacket and tie. The sleeves on his white button-down are rolled up on his toned forearms. It looks like maybe he hasn’t shaved since yesterday because he’s sporting a sexy amount of scruff. He looks meaner with it, too tough for this setting. Truth be told, that face is wasted in this job. He should be working security for some mafia boss, interrogating moles. Those thick expressive eyebrows say everything he can’t while he’s on the phone.

I hold up the food in question.

He nods toward the other attorneys while continuing his conversation.

“Thank you!” the guys each say quietly, quickly accepting the plates.

I rush out to get drinks, sweeping my gaze around to make sure everyone out here is still good to go. Then I start to make Hudson a plate. I’m not sure what kind of pizza he likes and I can’t ask him while he’s on the phone, so I just give him my favorites: plain pepperoni and a slice of supreme. I add a little salad on the side and, on a hunch, grab him a Coke too.

Back in his office, I find him leaning over his desk, still on the phone, his stress ball forgotten near an empty coffee cup. He watches me as I walk in with his plate and drink. It feels like miles between his door and his desk. I manage to get there without stumbling and spilling his soda everywhere, but only because I take small, measured steps and hold my breath the whole time, thus pleasing the karma gods.

Because I’m not about to accidentally get grease stains on anything important, I set his plate down on the farthest corner of his desk. I straighten and am about to flee as quickly as possible, but I realize he’s still watching me with careful reverence.

I look to him, mouthing, “Greek salad,” so he’ll know what to expect. Then, “Pepperoni. Supreme,” pointing at each of the pizzas. Uh, duh. It’s a little unnecessary to explain to someone living in Chicago what pepperoni pizza looks like, but too late to backtrack now.

He shakes his head and mouths, “Have you eaten?”

I shake my head right back, and even though no sound leaves his lips, I’m still absolutely certain from his furrowed brow that he’s not pleased with me or my answer.

He’s the one actually wheeling and dealing here. He needs the sustenance.

“Eat,” he mouths.

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