Eight hours. Just eight hours between heaven and hell. Between Mari’s warmth and my parents’ frost. Between feeling more alive than I’d ever felt and wanting to disappear entirely.
“You’re right,” I said, because it was easier than arguing. “It’s not like me at all.”
CHAPTER 13
Not A Sound
MARI
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, Mari.”
I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror in a suite at the Royal Gardens’, trying to calm the horde of butterflies attacking my stomach. Tonight, after the Kussikov-Martin wedding reception, I was going to talk to Hudson about our future. Business partnership. App development. Whatever this thing between us was becoming.
“You’re insane,” I told my reflection, carefully blotting my lipstick. “Certifiably, undeniably insane.”
We’d spent all night preparing for the wedding because of the double booking during the set up time. But it’d been fun. Enjoyable even. There was no denying it now; Hudson and I made an excellent team.
My phone buzzed on the marble countertop, Hudson’s name lighting up the screen.
Where are you? Criss is threatening mutiny over the ceremony arch ribbons.
Be there in 2.
Make it 1. I’m using my diplomatic skills, but I’m running out of compliments for his “artistic vision.”
I smiled, tucking my phone into the pocket of my dress—thank god for dresses with pockets—and took one last look in the mirror. “You’ve got this, Landry. It’s just another wedding. Just another day.”
Except it wasn’t. It was the day everything in my professional world had finally clicked into place, and I was excited and nervous and on the verge of throwing up.
Nearly a week had passed since Hudson and I had crossed the line from business partners to... whatever we were now. Six days of mind-blowing sex and the growing realization that I might have found something special in the last man I’d ever expected.
When I reached the ceremony space, I found Hudson standing with his back ramrod straight talking to Criss, who was gesturing at the ceremony arch on the Royal Gardens’ stunning outdoor terrace.
“—can’t possibly be expected to compromise my artistic integrity,” he was saying as I approached. “The ribbons completely clash with the flowers they’ve chosen.”
“The clients specifically requested white ribbons,” Hudson replied, his jaw clenched in a way I now recognized meant he was holding onto his patience by a thread. “As specified in the contract you signed.”
“The contract allows for artistic interpretation?—”
“Hi,” I murmured, sliding my hand down Hudson’s arm as I stepped between them. “Criss! The arch looks gorgeous. Your vision for the floral design is stunning as always.”
Criss preened, his shoulders relaxing. “Thank you, Mari. At least someone understands?—”
“And because you’re so talented, I know you can make those white ribbons we discussed look absolutely breathtaking.”
“Of course I can, but…”
“It would mean so much to Lia and Manny.” I squeezed his arm. “And we’ll highlight your incredible work in all the social posts. I was thinking of a dedicated feature on your floral arrangements?”
Twenty minutes later, Hudson and I watched as Criss supervised his assistants in changing the ribbons, his earlier outrage seemingly forgotten.
“You’re incredible,” Hudson said, handing me a coffee he’d somehow procured during the negotiations. “How do you do that?”
“Magic,” I replied, taking a grateful sip. “And shameless flattery. Works every time.”
“I tried flattery.”
“You tried reasonable flattery. That never works with creatives.” I bumped his shoulder with mine. “You have to go full Renaissance patron. ‘Your work rivals Michelangelo! Your vision transcends mortal understanding!’”
