“Mari Landry, Knot Your Average Wedding, how can I help you?”
“Mari, it’s Lia Martin. I hope I’m not interrupting?”
I sat up straighter, as if she could see me through the phone. “Not at all! What can I do for you?”
“Manny and I would like to schedule a cake tasting for tomorrow afternoon. Sweet Surrender Bakery at three? We’ve already confirmed with Hudson.”
Of course they had. I fought the urge to growl like a territorial chihuahua being approached by a well-groomed poodle.
“That sounds perfect,” I said instead. “I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful! We’re excited to see what you both think. Manny is particularly interested in your... chemistry.”
I choked on air. “Our what?”
“Your professional chemistry,” Lia clarified, though her tone suggested otherwise. “How you balance each other’s perspectives. It’s fascinating to watch.”
“Right. Professional. Chemistry. Got it.” As in the kind that blows up in your face if you mix the wrong elements.
After hanging up, I dropped my forehead onto my desk with a thud. Tomorrow I’d have to sit across from Hudson, watching him eat cake without thinking about licking frosting off his abs. Which I hadn’t seen since the night before the expo, but my imagination had helpfully filled in the blanks with vivid memories and a completely accurate rendering of chiseled perfection.
I was so screwed. Figuratively.
“Having a rough morning?”
I jerked upright so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash to find Hudson standing in the doorway, looking irritatingly perfect in ablack suit that fit him like sin on Sunday. My body responded with immediate, traitorous interest, like a dog hearing the word “treat.”
“What are you doing here? I thought you had a meeting.” Smooth, Mari. Really smooth.
“It ended early.” He set his portfolio on his desk, which was, of course, meticulously organized compared to my creative chaos. He actually pulled out a leather-bound planner and a fountain pen. Who used those anymore? Pretentious assholes with perfect handwriting and forearms that flexed when they wrote, apparently. “The vendor wasn’t a good fit.”
“Couldn’t handle your control-freak tendencies?” I smiled sweetly. “Did they commit the unforgivable sin of using a paper clip instead of a binder clip?”
Hudson’s jaw twitched, the equivalent of a normal person throwing a tantrum. “They couldn’t meet my standards for the Kussikov-Martin engagement. There’s a difference between perfectionism and basic competence.”
He removed his suit jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, smoothing it once before sitting down. The movement stretched his shirt across his shoulders in a way that made my mouth go dry.
“Did Lia call you about tomorrow?” he asked, his green eyes flicking to mine.
“Yes. Cake tasting. Three o’clock.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“To cake or to torturing me?”
His eyes met mine, and for a second, something flashed there that made my stomach flip. “Both.”
The air between us crackled with tension. This was exactly what I needed to address before we were trapped in a room with sugar and spice and everything that reminded me of how his tongue had felt against my neck.
“We need to talk,” I said, standing up.
Hudson raised an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”
“About what happened at the venue.”
He stilled, his expression carefully neutral, but I noticed his hand tighten almost imperceptibly around his fancy-pants pen. “What about it?”
“It can’t happen again.”
