Willa releases a shaky sigh. “Fine.” Holding up a finger, she points it into the air. “But I’m paying you back.”
“Fine. Yes. That’s great. Pay me back.”
No way in hell is she paying me back.
ChapterNine
WILLA
Why?Why? Why did I ever agree to this? I should have bowed out gracefully at my apartment. I should have thrown myself down onto my sofa and bawled. That would have worked, I know it. Hudson said he couldn’t stand to see me sad; I should have given all of my tears to him to make him run away. But now I’m in a dress that the sales lady described as “a Kate Spade tropical, floral swing dress with flutter sleeves.” Whatever it was, it cost half my rent and was purchased at the fanciest store I’ve ever seen. Shockingly, it sold my size. I don’t know how he knew where to go but he did. The thing is, I like the dress even though it’s a lot shorter than what I normally wear.
The trying on part wasn’t so bad. While they had my size, they only had a few options. It was between this dress with the flutter sleeves, a white strapless dress (no way), and a fluorescent orange floor-length number that I referred to as a hippie dress because people wore stuff like this back in the 1960s. I liked it, but the orange was way too bright for me. So, tropical floral it is.
Now we’re sitting in his tiny convertible in front of a huge house in a fancy Chicago neighborhood known as Streeterville. While I get my breathing under control, Hudson says encouraging words like “It’s going to be fine, Willa. We’ll just go in there, meet my parents, say hello to Mac and Barbara, and leave.”
I look over at him and give him my most serious expression. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
Blowing out air slowly, I nod. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
“That’s the spirit.” Hudson opens his door, but before he somehow unfolds himself from his elfin car, he says, “Stay there. Let me get your door for you.”
“No problem.” He’s going to have to help hoist me out so I don’t flash everyone my goodies. “Stupid short dress,” I mumble.
“What’s that?” He heard me because of course he did. I’m in a stupid, itsy-bitsy convertible.
“Nothing.” Hudson opens my door and holds his hand out to me. Placing mine in his, I feel a charge run up my arm. Geesh, the guy is electric, I swear.
“Where’s my happy-go-lucky girl?”
“She’s back in my apartment.”Reading a steamy romance book while her cat Barney slumbers on her lap.
That gets a laugh out of him. “Well, you look lovely, Willa, so at least you don’t need to worry about that.”
At least I don’t have to worry about that?What’s he saying? I’ve got other things to worry about?
The second we walk through the massive house, past a kitchen about three times the size of my entire apartment, out to a backyard that seems too large to belong in the city, and into the garden party, I know what I’ve got to worry about. People are milling about in fancy duds shipping champagne. Champagne! In glass glasses. Oh, yeah. I’ve got lots to worry about. “Dumpster fire,” I mutter. My life is one big dumpster fire.
“What?” Hudson leans in closer to hear me.
“Nothing.” I give him my fakest smile and slip my hand around his arm. “Hudson?”
“Yes?”
“Do not for one second leave my side.”
“Got it.” He smiles.
We walk across a huge deck to steps leading down to the yard. On my right is the barbecue area. Hudson was correct, there’s a woman there in a white coat and chef’s hat cooking away. On my left is the bar area with a man in a white coat like the woman at the grill. I stare in that direction.
“Would you like a drink, Willa?”
“Yes. Or six.”
Hudson laughs except I wasn’t kidding. I’m going to needa lotof alcohol to get through this. At the bar, Hudson orders two glasses of champagne. “Who drinks champagne at a barbecue?” I say it just as I sip from the pretty glass. It’s yummy. Still, I’ve got to finish my thought, “Barbecues are all about beer in cans, Hudson.” The comment earns me another chuckle.
The barbecues I’ve attended before certainly weren’t all about round tables with white linens and chairs covered in satin and ribbons. The fresh exotic flowers and candles in the center of each of those tables is also a bit off the mark for a traditional barbecue. And forget the fact there’s a twenty-piece orchestra playing next to the bushes––but I guess when you’re rich, you call your fancy parties whatever you want. Hell, they could call it a camping party and I’ve no doubt these people would still dress like it’s a New Year’s Eve Ball as their staff worked diligently popping up gold tents all over the place.
