Page 36 of Mr. Big Shot

We’ve been circling each other all night. At certain moments I’ve felt his gaze on me, though every time I turn to find him, he’s focused on his own conversation, circulating through guests, surprisingly social for a man who seems to want nothing to do with people most of the time.

I take on his same posture, leaning on the railing. I get the impression he could hold out all night, could stand here for hours without saying a single word. The thought alone drives me insane.

I break first.

“You dressed up.”

That’s when I realize something. My head whips around quickly, finding Lucy talking to my mom. I didn’t realize it before, but they’re matching! Lucy’s also in a Top Gun flight suit.

“Was it Lucy’s idea?”

His gaze cuts to me, almost regretfully, as he nods. “She ordered them.”

I smile. “Cute. I love it.”

He shrugs, indifferent. “I swear I catch her watching that beach scene from Top Gun: Maverick at least once a week on YouTube.”

Can’t say I blame her…though why she’s bothering with Miles Teller when Hudson is right there, flesh and blood is beyond me. He’s much sexier.

I flush like my thoughts were just shouted out loud, and then I busy myself looking for another waiter. I was planning to cut myself off, but…

“Dorothy, huh?” Hudson asks.

I tap my heels together in reply, eliciting a dimpled smile from him.

He takes in my legs, and I feel compelled to explain, “The dress was longer when I tried it on in the shop.”

“Hmm.” He doesn’t sound bothered. “People are wearing less.”

His gaze rises to the circus performers behind me, the ones who are all but naked in their cages.

“That’s not comforting.”

He looks back at me, and a sort of relief settles over his expression. I get the sense that he’s been dying to do this all night—just stand here with me, having a simple conversation. “You have long legs. That’s the problem.”

I look down at my legs. They’re covered in white stockings up to my knees. He’s assessing those too.

“Should we be talking about my legs?” I ask, working up the courage to peer up at him.

He looks away and narrows his eyes out on the river. “Probably not.” Then he takes another sip of his beer.

“Maybe we shouldn’t be talking at all.”

“Okay.” The suggestion doesn’t bother him in the least.

He really is the worst opponent to go up against because he isn’t bluffing; he truly doesn’t care about any of this. I wonder what makes him tick, if there’s anything for him outside of work.

This isn’t the first time I’ve wondered these same things. I’m inexhaustibly curious about this man, and the more silent he is, the more indifferent he acts—the more I want to peel him apart layer by layer. Where does he live? What does he do when he gets home from work? Does he watch TV? Does he even own a TV?

Am I as mysterious as he is?

The thought makes me choke back a laugh.

Dorothy, you already know the answer to that.

“Looks like you’re missing your lion… You’ve only managed to wrangle the scarecrow and the tin man.”

Ha. If only he knew the full story.

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