Page 7 of The Wedding Fake
I felt a rush of gratitude, realizing he hadn’t lucked into helping me out of my panic attack. “The last few years must’ve been hard,” I said. He nodded, his wide lips pinching for a moment. “My sister is a doctor,” I added, then felt a blush creep up my neck. It wasn’t like I’d done anything on the front lines of the pandemic. More like I’d stayed home until my anxiety had begun to spin out control. “Anyway,” I continued awkwardly, “thanks for helping with my little panic attack back there. I’ll assume you’ve seen worse and I’ll try not to be too embarrassed.”
His smile was back, tilting his lips, and I felt a little proud I’d been able to put it there, although I suspected it was more commonplace than the frown that had replaced it briefly. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’ve seen worse,” he said. “It’s usually the men.”
“The men?” I asked, confused.
“Statistically, men are more likely to panic in an elevator stall. I’ve responded to a few cases with men in fullblown panic attacks. It wasn’t pretty.”
I’d never heard that before. I sat up straighter, my eyes widening with interest. “Do you know what percentage of men as compared to women?” I asked.
His grin deepened, but this time it looked like he might laugh at me. “Not offhand, no.”
Now the heat was climbing straight up my neck and onto my face. “Of course not,” I agreed. I’d look it up later. If we were ever rescued from this horrible elevator, that is.
“How ‘bout you? What do you do?” he asked.
“I’m an auditor,” I said, and though I liked my job and was proud of my job under regular circumstances, I felt oddly self-conscious telling this epically handsome man.
“So you make sure businesses are on the up and up?” he asked.
I assumed his polite interest was due to the fact we were trapped together. Under normal circumstances no one asked follow-up questions.
“I’m an internal auditor, so companies hire me—the firm I work at—” I corrected myself, “to evaluate risks and controls and then advise the management.”
I expected his eyes to glaze over, but he shrugged and said, “I can’t say I understand those words in this context,” he admitted, “but you seem passionate.”
My back stiffened, and I dipped my chin to look at him seriously. “I like seeing the quantitative improvements that come as a result of my work.” He pursed his lips tightly, and this time I was sure he was trying not to laugh at me. “Are you laughing at me?” I asked, feeling my cheeks flame as his grin broke through to the surface.
“No,” he said in a rush, but I knew he was, and I felt around my lap until I found my discarded mask, pulling it back on my face.
“I’m sure they’ll be here soon. We don’t have to talk,” I said coolly. If we didn’t talk, I wouldn’t say anything humiliating.
Hudson slid across the elevator floor gracefully, ending up sitting next to me. He sat close, and yet not one centimeter of his skin touched mine. I’d sat in closer proximity to people in movie theaters and on airplanes, but I’d never felt so acutely aware of another human’s body. “You’re right. I was laughing a little,” he admitted, nudging me gently with one elbow. I huffed, twisting myself to put a little more room between us. Every logical part of my brain was reminding me to keep my distance, even while my body demanded I shift back. Hell, my body wanted us even closer. Visions of climbing onto Hudson’s lap flooded my brain, as unwanted as the images of plummeting to my death had been minutes earlier.
“I’ve never heard anyone use the word quantitative in regular conversation before.” He nudged me once more. “I’m not making fun of you. It’s cute.”
“It’s cute is condescending shit attractive men say to keep women in their place,” I snapped.
“You find me attractive,” he said—a statement, not a question.
If I’d needed evidence he was an asshole, those four words were proof enough. There was no conceivable way this man had ever looked in a mirror and questioned his looks, even for a second. I’d known he was handsome with his mask on, but I’d never anticipated the effect he’d have when the mask came off. Hudson North had movie-star good looks and a smile I wanted to squeeze into a syringe and mainline. It was unfair for any one man to have the power this man was packing in a single grin. He shot that smile in my direction and my body ached—it clenched, it longed—in a way I could only associate with the intimate moment right before a man plunges inside a woman, when the anticipation of giving yourself over and being filled by another human drowns out every other sound in your head.
I swallowed, pushing the thoughts from my head and demanding my body fall in line. I wasn’t the first woman to respond to that smile, I was sure, and I wouldn’t be the last, which was exactly why Hudson was off-limits. He knew he was hot as hell and didn’t need me to verify it. “Your ego needs that?” I asked dryly.
He looked up as if considering the question, then gave a small shrug that was irritatingly adorable. “Apparently it does,” he replied. “But for the record, I found your choice of words—quantitative—” he clarified, “endearing. There’s little point keeping you in your place when 'your place’ is beautiful, sophisticated, and far smarter than I am.”
Dammit. I didn’t want this compliment to make me feel warm all over, but it did. Stupid, handsome Hudson North.
“Did you grow up in the city?” he asked.
His question shocked me out of my thoughts. “What? No. I, um, my family lives upstate.”
“Me too. Cranberry Falls. You heard of it?”
“I know Cranberry Falls,” I said, knitting my hands together and settling them into my lap. “I grew up in Bridgeport.”
“We’re neighbors!” he declared triumphantly, and he wasn’t wrong. Cranberry Falls and Bridgeport were only a town away from each other. “You visit often?”
I sighed, wishing he’d brought up any other topic. Suddenly fighting illicit Hudson-thoughts seemed far preferable to the flood of wedding/week off/Grant Dupree stressors that were now filling my brain. “I have to go back in a couple weeks,” I grumbled.