“Obviously.”
Hudson reached out, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “Missed a spot,” he muttered, showing me the smudge of frosting on his thumb.
Our gazes met, and for a moment, I wanted to lean into his touch, to close the distance between us again.
“Landry,” he began, his voice hesitant.
“Don’t,” I cut him off, stepping back. “This was just physical, remember? One last time to get it out of our systems.”
He studied me for a long moment, his expression guarded. “And did it work? Is it out of your system?”
No. Nope. Not even close. But I couldn’t admit that.
“Completely,” I lied. “Now we can focus on the competition without... distractions.”
Something flickered in his eyes, and the mask slid into place again. “Absolutely. No distractions.”
We cleaned up the room as best as we could in silence. Lillianna was waiting for us when we walked out.
“Ah, there you are! I was beginning to worry.” Her eyes widened as she took in our disheveled appearances. “What happened?”
“Minor mishap with the samples. We’ve cleaned up as best we could.” Hudson offered her an apology.
“I see. And have you made your selections for Mr. Kussikov and Ms. Martin?”
I glanced at Hudson, who gave a slight nod.
“We think the cardamom-rose, the zabaglione with blackberry, and the vanilla bean with salted caramel would provide the best options,” I said, my voice steady.
“Excellent choices. I’ll prepare tasting boxes for the couple to make the final decision. You two make quite the team, despite your... competitive nature.”
If she only knew.
Back in my apartment that evening, I showered away the last traces of frosting, and settled at my desk with my laptop. Work would keep my mind off what had happened. At least, that was the hope.
I opened the prototype of my wedding planning app, the secret project I’d been developing for months. Even Anica didn’t know about it, mainly because Callan was a nosy ass, and with his tech background, he’d probably have too many opinions. And I was always of the mind that opinions were like butt holes; everyone had one and they all stink.
What had started as a simple organization tool had evolved into something more comprehensive. I wasn’t a genius when it came to coding and tech things, but I’d messed around with it in college for fun (and because it’d pissed off my parents, who had wanted their daughter to be a boring lawyer). It was a simple platform that combined planning features with emotional storytelling elements. It was similar to other wedding apps, except it catered towards professional wedding planners rather than DIY weddings from brides, though I was sure uptight brides could figure it out too with a little practice. I’d put in information for all the vendors we’d worked with over the years that had passed both Anica’s and my stamp of approval. Hopefully, with the expansion projects, I could expand the app’s resources as well.
Even if it was just for me.
As I worked on the interface, I begrudgingly incorporated some things Hudson had said since we’d started working on the Kussikov-Martin wedding. When he’d mentioned “structural stability for outdoor installations” during our venue tour, I’d rolled my eyes, but now I was adding a weather contingency planning feature. I integrated more detailed timeline capabilities, vendor verification systems, and structural stability checks for decorative elements. Things I would have dismissed before, but regretfully recognized as valuable complements to my more creative features.
“Damn it,” I muttered, realizing I was essentially building Hudson Gable into my app. His voice was in my head, pointing out practical considerations I’d have previously ignored. “One point for the asshole.”
I wouldn’t tell him about the app, of course.
I didn’t want to have some dick mansplain what was wrong with the app, especially if that dick was Hudson. He might want my body, but I doubted he’d respect my approach or value my perspective.
If it had to be just physical between us, so be it. But that weasel was not going to, well, weasel his way into my inner sanctum. That would mean opening myself up to judgment and disappointment and eventual rejection when he realized I couldn’t be molded into his idea of perfection.
I saved my work on the app and closed my laptop, exhaustion finally catching up with me. As I climbed into bed, my phone pinged with a text from the dillweed.
I hope we’re still professional competitors.
I stared at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard. What was I supposed to say? That despite my best intentions, I couldn’t stop thinking about him? That our little cake tasting make-out session had only made me want more? That I was terrified of what that might mean? I finally typed out a response.
Still competitors. Still professional. When it suits me.
