Page 84 of Mr. Big Shot

“You don’t want to know.”

I tsk. “I really, really do.”

“You’re playing with fire here, Scarlett.”

“Aww, don’t leave me hanging…or I might have to go track down that guy you scared off.”

I can imagine how lethal his eyes look right now, how out of control he feels to have me so far away testing the boundaries like this.

“What do I do?” he repeats. “I think back on the way you looked on your couch. I reimagine the entire night. I torture myself with every tiny detail.”

“Sounds painful.”

“It is.”

“I wish I could help. I could help.”

“Tell me the name of the club and I’ll order you an Uber.”

Ugh. I want to pout at the change in subject. “You don’t have to…”

We could go right back to imagining ways to torture each other.

“I’d rather know you’ll get home safe than have to worry about some drunken fool hitting on you again.”

“Maybe I want to be hit on.”

There’s a sigh on his end of the line, but it doesn’t sound like exasperation so much as desperation. “I thought we agreed on our path forward. Strictly friends.”

“Yes, and then I got drunk and lonely and now here I am, practically begging for a morsel of your attention.” I know I’ve taken things too far, know this conversation will come back to bite me in the morning, but for now, I have to know one more thing. “If you were here, and I wasn’t drunk—”

“Yes.” He cuts me off before I can even finish.

I laugh. “So impatient.”

“You have no fucking idea.”

I love the gruffness in his voice. It does something to me, twists up my insides, makes me shift on my seat. I tip my head back and look up at the strobe lights on the ceiling. Everyone in the club falls away. The blaring music mutes to nothing. “I wish you’d tell me more…”

“I don’t want to make things harder for us come Monday. I have no excuse.”

“I’m not making it easy on you. There’s your excuse. I’m practically begging you. And I won’t remember a thing, promise.”

He goes quiet.

“Tell me one fantasy,” I plead. “One.”

“You. In my office. Bent over and holding on to the edge of my desk. You’re in that black pencil skirt you wore your third day on the job.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Tasting you again.”

I swallow past the intense rise of desire threatening to choke me. Before, it was teasing and fun. Now, it feels so raw and real I can barely force a laugh. I lift my head and root myself back in the here and now. When I speak, my voice is wobbly. “Ah, there. That wasn’t so hard.” And then, “Good night, Hudson.”

I hang up.

It’s a bold move, of course. I know full well Hudson is in Chicago, staring down at his phone, hot and bothered by our conversation. Or worse, completely pissed off.

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