Page 85 of Mr. Big Shot

Poor, poor Hudson.

But more importantly, poor, poor ME!

Chapter Twenty-Six

Scarlett

On Sunday night, I’m splayed on my couch, recuperating with a gallon of water, a rerun of Dateline, and a random collection of junk food from my pantry when my phone pings with a new work email.

I reach for my phone right away, but I don’t bother sitting up to read it. It’s a meeting invitation, which doesn’t spark any sort of reaction because I get those all the time. I only go rigid once I see who it’s from.

Hudson wants to meet at 7:30 a.m. tomorrow morning. No one else is on the invite list.

Bright and early the next day, I stroll into the Elwood Hoyt offices with treats for Lucy.

“Oh, look at you, spoiling me,” she says with a laugh of delight.

I point to the brown bag. “Pastries from a little bakery right by my house, the one I was telling you about the other day. You have to heat up the cinnamon roll before you eat it. It’s so much better.”

“Where’s my cinnamon roll?” Hudson asks from behind me.

My back stiffens.

Lucy winks at me. “Ignore him.”

“Did you have a good weekend, Scarlett?”

I can’t look at him. I focus on Lucy as I nod. “Sure. Great.”

“It’s 7:29.”

“So I still have a minute.”

Lucy looks between us, confused.

“We have a meeting this morning,” I explain to her.

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Ah, right. Better get to it then.”

She opens up the crinkly brown bag as I turn away and head for Hudson’s office. This must be what it feels like to walk the plank.

I don’t look at him on purpose. No sense in losing my nerve on the way to the lion’s den. Better to steel myself now and freak out in there, behind closed doors.

Though there’s likely no reason to freak out. This meeting could be completely work-related. It could have to do with the McNealand acquisition or something. It’s not out of the question…well, not until Hudson shuts the door behind him and asks, “How was your trip?”

It’s disconcerting to have him at my back, so I turn to face him.

He’s standing with one hand tucked into his pocket. Relaxed and confident. He’s wearing a white button-down underneath a dark gray suit. He shaved this morning, and though I love the scruff, I realize I’ve been dramatically underrating his clean-shaven jaw. He’s not smiling, though that’s the norm with him. I doubt he’s mad, but I can’t be certain.

“Should I apologize?” I ask gently, testing the waters.

If he’s mad at me…I don’t mind, actually. I like him when he’s a little grumpy.

“Are you sorry?” he fires back.

My smile is slow to spread. “No.”

His dark eyes drift over me. “I worried about you getting home.”

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