“My father sold all of our artwork and furniture after the news came out about our CFO defrauding the company,” he blurts out. “I was twelve years old and suddenly the bottom fell out of our life. My mother sold all of her jewelry and replaced it with fakes, to keep up appearances. She cried all the time, and my parents, who were the most devoted couple in the world before that, got in screaming fights. Our house was so empty it echoed. We slept on mattresses on the floor while my father sneaked in thrift store furniture piece by piece. We ate dinner at a picnic table with mismatched chairs. We couldn’t invite friends over, because then they’d find out, and we’d be socially ostracized. All this because a man my father trusted ripped off the company that had our name on it. My father was determined to pay back every last cent to our investors, and it nearly bankrupted us.”
I stare at him, open mouthed. That’s such a different experience than what happened when my mother got sick. Our friends and neighbors and church congregation rallied around her, holding fundraisers, leaving baskets full of vegetables from their gardens on our doorstep.
“The papers trashed us. They humiliated us. Kids at school made fun of me because of the lies they read about us, and I started getting in fights all the time.”
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur.
He lets out a tortured breath. “When my parents died two years later, Alice was eighteen. She was meant to go to Oxford, but instead she stayed home and she took care of me and worked at Hudson’s. She used her salary to pay the mortgage that my father had to take out on the house, and our credit card bills and utilities. She’d sneak home food from our gourmet department whenever she could, and we converted my mother’s flower garden to a vegetable garden. I know what it is to be genuinely hungry and worry where your next meal is coming from.”
His eyes burn with remembered pain. “My uncle paid for me to stay in private school, back when we still sort of got along. Back when he didn’t see me as a threat, I guess. Henry came to the house a few days a week for free, cleaning and doing repairs and cooking dinner and supervising my homework, and he had another job for a family across town, to pay his bills. All our share of the profit from the company went towards paying off our debt. I worked at Hudson’s too, as a stock boy, full time in the summer and part time during the school year. I pretended I was doing it to learn the ropes from the ground up, but I used the money to pay for my private school uniforms and lunches.”
My heart squeezes in sympathy. It was hard when my mother got sick, but we didn’t have the added stress of living a lie every single day.
“Nobody knew.” His voice is heavy with emotion. “That was the whole point. My father was never one to ask for charity, and he didn’t believe in airing our dirty laundry. Anyway, it’s all in the past. When I turned twenty, I took the helm at Hudson’s and forced a bunch of innovations down the board’s throat. We were faltering at that point. I got three of the board members on my side, and they let me revamp our internet presence and bring in new, more contemporary lines of clothing and furniture. By the time I was twenty-five, I’d turned things around to the point where I was finally able to pay off the last of the money that was embezzled. It’s been a long time since I’ve gone hungry, but you don’t forget it, ever.”
He turns away, rubbing his forehead with his hand. “I’ve never told anyone that before.”
I put my hand on his arm and squeeze it gently. “I’d never repeat a word of it. Ever. I hope you know that. If I fail on my to-do list and you fire me, I won’t repeat it. If I walk into your office and find you doing Sloane on your desk, I won’t repeat it.”
He barks out a horrified laugh. “Winona, if you walk into my office and find me doing Sloane on my desk, call Torchwood. I’ve been replaced by a shapeshifting alien bent on world destruction.”
“Oh my God, did you just make a Doctor Who reference?” I say, delighted. “You big nerd.”
“Hey, you got the Doctor Who reference.” He grins at me. “You little nerd.”
“I’m learning so much about you.”
Good things. I’m learning good things about Blake Hudson, which feels dangerous. He suffered loss after loss when he was younger, and came out of it strong and successful. He’s enough of a geek that he can casually sprinkle his conversation with sci-fi in-jokes. He may give me grief, but when anyone else even looks at me wrong, he morphs into a knight in shining armor. He acts like he’s all business and nothing else, but he’s a big mushy marshmallow when it comes to his family.
It’s so much easier to manage my crush on him when I can wrap it in resentment and anti-elitist judgement.
I set down my glass of water and take a step away from him. As if putting an extra six inches of distance between us will save me.
He’s looking around the apartment again, as if he needs a distraction from the heavy emotional energy that’s fizzing in the air. His eyes light on something, and his brows shoot up in surprise.
“What is that?” He points accusingly.
Curse the luck, he’s spotted a crate of peach jam in the corner of the living room – with the logo on the outside of the wooden box.
I want to move to block his view, but that would be too obvious, so I just shrug. “It’s nothing.”
“It doesn’t look like nothing. It looks like a crate of peach jam,” he says accusingly.
He sets down his water glass and takes a step forward. He’s going to walk over to the crate. He’s going to demand answers.
I quickly move in front of him. He tries to sidestep me, so I wrap my arms around his neck and move with him.
“Shall we dance?” I keep my tone light.
He smiles down at me, his eyes sparkling with humor. “What secrets are you keeping, Winona?”
He’s not going to let this go. I press up against him and kiss him. I mean, I have absolutely no choice, do I? It’s that or start spilling confessions of my own, and that’s never going to happen. I don’t want him to think I’m asking for charity, or pity.
He startles at the touch of my lips, then leans into it.
He cups my cheek in his hand, deepening the kiss. His tongue strokes mine, tangling with it, caressing me. Like a fuse box switched on, my senses blaze to life, my skin pulsing with hunger for his touch. Then he pulls back, putting his hands on my shoulders.
“Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. We can’t,” he says roughly. “I can’t date. I’m terrible at it. I don’t have the time for it. When Sloane and I were together, the only reason we lasted as long as we did was that she never demanded anything of me. She was so eager to have bragging rights as Blake Hudson’s girlfriend that she tolerated me cancelling at least half our dates at the last minute and going a week at a time without calling her. I was a real asshole, now that I think of it. I can’t do that to you, and one night with you would never be enough. So where would that leave us?”
My heart thuds in my chest. “I don’t know,” I admit. “But I do know that we both want each other – we have since we first laid eyes on each other, and we’re fighting it so hard it’s wearing us down to a nub. Am I wrong?”
He shakes his head slowly. “No. I can’t sleep at night for wanting you.”