Page 83 of Mr. Big Shot

“Where’s Hannah?” Hudson asks.

“Behind the DJ booth.”

I look over to see she’s stolen the poor guy’s headphones and is making Gabriella take multiple boomerangs of her. We look like a bunch of moms.

“Sorry I called you. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

“I’m not upset.”

He says it so emphatically I’m inclined to believe him.

“That’s good. I’m not upset either.”

He laughs.

There’s a natural lull, and I feel compelled to continue our conversation by any means possible, even if that means saying something stupid. “You really screwed me over by scaring away that guy…”

“Oh really?” he replies dryly.

“Yeah, everyone is supposed to get laid tonight, and he was my only option.”

“What?”

“It’s like a bachelorette party rite of passage.”

“Scarlett—”

“But here’s the thing, I’d rather not have sex with anyone else—”

“Scarlett—”

“Why’d you leave my apartment after? Was it because you were scared I’d be clingy or something?”

“Fuck.”

God I love the way the word sounds coming from his mouth. It’s like he’s absolutely drained of energy. It’s just the way he sounded after we had sex.

“You said I was perfect.”

“You were. You are.” He sounds absolutely resolute about that fact.

I smile a dopey drunk smile.

“Perfect,” I repeat.

And when he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t chastise me for bringing up this subject, I decide I should keep talking.

“I have dreams you know.”

There’s nothing but silence on the other end of the line, but I know he’s listening with bated breath. I can picture him sitting there, hoping I’ll continue despite the wrongness of it. We’ve been so good since I went into his office and offered a truce. We haven’t gone back to working out together. We don’t hang out outside of work at all. We’re nice to each other in the office, we make small talk when the option is available. I’ll bring him coffee, he’ll invite me to lunch with Lucy and him. But everything from before—all the ways we were trying to sneak by fate—has been carefully avoided until now.

“About you,” I finish. I hear his sharp intake of breath and I know I’ve struck a chord. “They’re rated R. Very, very risqué and troublesome. You see…every time it happens, when I wake up from one of these dreams, I feel empty.” I smile a salacious smile. “Do you ever feel that way, Hudson?”

“Yes.”

The word is stern but honest, and I love it.

“What do you do?” I ask, wanting to test this drunken power while I’ve still got it.

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