“Sounds like high school all over again. I’ll be right at home.” She smiles charmingly at me and holds out her arm. Her full pink mouth shimmers with gloss, and the dress hugs her curves in ways that undo me. The curve of her lips fills me with forbidden, lustful thoughts. “Shall we?”
No. I want to stay here and tear that filmy dress off her with my teeth. I want to go down on my knees and lap her sweetness until she utters throaty cries of pleasure. I want to mark her fair flesh with love-bites, bury myself hilt-deep inside her and explode…
“Of course.” I hold out my arm, and she places her hand on it.
“Once more unto the breach, good friends,” she says.
“Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,” I reply. That earns me a pleased smile that’s worth more than all the goods in our shop.
She looks like that, she hands me my ass on a regular basis, she glows with kindness and humor, and she quotes Shakespeare. And I can’t let myself have her, because she’ll undo everything I’ve worked for my whole life.
All those women who chased after me, all those relationships I let fade into nothing without even noticing…and finally I meet the right woman. Winona Jeffers, the 47th Street Hellion. It’s her. I’ve known it all along, since the first moment she came barreling out of her door in her crazy pajamas, spewing fire, eyes blazing. She just fits, perfectly – but I’ve met her at the wrong time in my life, and all I can do is yearn for what might have been.
Karma, you bitch, I wish you were a person so I could punch you square in the throat.
Chapter Seventeen
Blake
As we step off the elevator, I place my hand on the small of her back, guiding her down the hallway that leads to the back entrance of our ballroom. Then I realize what I’m doing, and I drop my hand and stop in my tracks. She looks up at me, puzzled.
"Hey.” I clear my throat. “I’m your boss and you’re my subordinate, so there’s something of an imbalance of power here.”
She makes a delicate snorting noise. “Keep telling yourself that.”
She’s right. Winona is an expert at Trojan-horsing her way through, under, around, and over any defenses I could build. Still, she needs to know that my asshole-ishness has its limits.
“As part of our employment agreement, I am requiring you to attend this event with me, and to tell people we’re on a date, and also to pretend that you don’t want to feed me through a woodchipper.”
She trills a surprised laugh. “Well, that went dark fast.”
I shoot her an annoyed look and continue. “You’re my fake date, but if you don’t want me to put my hand on your back or put my arm around you, that’s totally fine. I don’t want to overstep.”
She cocks her head, giving me a quizzical look. "So your conscience will let you live with verbally fileting me and running me ragged until I drop from exhaustion, so you can roll me out the door and onto the unemployment line. But it won’t let you molest me?”
I nod in agreement. "That sounds about right."
"Duly noted. I do not mind you putting your hand on my back, or your arm around my waist or my shoulders. I’ll even accept a kiss on the cheek.” Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “Just keep your hands off the no-no spots. No touching the ta-tas.”
I grin at her. “No cupping the coochie?”
“Exactly. Also, no fondling the fanny.”
And now that’s all I can think about. She has a very nice fanny. Firm, round, like two halves of a ripe peach… I wish I could tell her that, because bringing up peaches would infuriate her, and then I could see that delightful flare of heat in her eyes. However, I’m sure there’s a section in our HR manual that prohibits using your out-loud voice when comparing your employee’s ass to any type of fruit or vegetable. And if there’s not, there should be.
“I can put that in writing if you want,” she adds. “An I-won’t-sue-you contract."
“No, I trust you.” And I do, I realize. Winona may be a lot of things, including impulsive, temperamental, defiant, and infuriating, but she’s also honest. I feel that to my very core.
I take her hand in mine, enfolding it completely. I run my palm over the security lock by the door, which is discretely tucked away at the back of the room. I did this deliberately, so we wouldn’t be swarmed the way we would if we entered through the front where the celebrities and socialites are streaming through.
We step through the door, and I watch her eyes go wide.
The ballroom has been converted to a “Round the World in Eighty Days” theme. Miniature hot air balloons drift overhead; larger hot air balloons are hung from the ceiling, with ladders so guests can ascend and take pictures. We’ve created backdrops from a dozen different cities around the world, with themed buffet tables and bars featuring the food and drink from each locale, served by staff flown in from each country we’re representing, dressed in attire representing their national heritage.
World music drifts from hidden speakers, pitched exactly high enough to be enjoyed but not interfere with conversation. Small stages scattered around the room feature dance troupes and acrobats from around the globe.
The guests in their finery flit like exotic tropical birds, swirling and posing and preening. Champagne and chocolate fountains burble merrily.
"It's stunning," she says with sincere appreciation. “You have amazing set designers on your staff.”
I smile, without a trace of irony or sarcasm for once. “I do, don’t I? This is what Hudson’s is all about. The actual in-person experience. Leaving your cubicle or apartment and stepping away from the screen and living life.”
She gives me a surprised sidelong glance. “I hadn’t thought about it that way.”
“That’s why it’s so important to me that Hudson’s survives and thrives and expands. It’s not just the fact that more stores equals more money. We’re already massively profitable. Hudson’s is a place that brings people together.”
Passion swells inside me, lighting my words with an inner flame. “I know I sound like one of our advertisements, but everything about our store is designed to be a sensual, real-world experience that goes far beyond a shopping trip. We encourage people to leave their cubicle, leave their home office, and come together in a way that’s so increasingly rare these days, and yet so important. We constantly work to keep people walking through our doors, and even more, we strive to make it a shared experience. That’s why we have plays, concerts, book signings, magicians, art exhibits, children’s puppet shows, cooking classes, interior decorating classes. Our store is a destination, not just a shopping center.”
“That’s amazing. I’m looking at it in a whole new light.” She cocks her head to the side. “Is there a particular reason for choosing London and Paris as your next locations?”
A flare of defensiveness burns through me. I tamp it down. She’s not attacking my father’s choices, she’s genuinely curious.
“A store like Hudson’s needs a certain clientele in order to survive, which means we need to be located in certain destinations. It also needs specific types of suppliers. Another thing that’s unique about Hudson’s is the craftmanship that goes into our goods. Our luxury goods are expensive, but that’s because they’re handcrafted to a level that’s unusual these days. We’re keeping entire traditions of lacemaking and weaving and cabinetry alive, just to name a few examples. This kind of store needs designers and craftsmen who can provide us with that type of artistry in large quantities, and the areas in and around London and Paris are rich with those types of old-world style tradesmen.”