Chapter Eight
The company cafeteria at Carlyle Enterprises was on the sixth floor of Carlyle Tower and, like the rest of the building, it had a modern, sleek design and was run with ruthless efficiency by a benevolent dictator determined to make it something extraordinary. Although Sawyer ran the rest of the corporation, the sixth floor belonged to Mrs.—first name unknown—Esposito. Short, round, and just shy of seventy, she ran a kitchen that fed the hundreds of Carlyle employees with an iron spoon. Until Hudson had met Felicia, Mrs. Esposito had been his hardest case. It had taken him a whole week to win her over.
It was at least half an hour since the last of the lunch rush had gone back to their offices when he strolled up to the nearly deserted cafeteria counter. Mrs. Esposito stood behind it in her pristine white apron and trademark black long-sleeve shirt and pants. The digital menu above her head announced today’s special was manicotti, steamed carrots, and a baguette, plus an oatmeal raisin cookie.
“You again.” She looked him up and down, the early afternoon sunlight pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, making her gray hair gleam like steel under her hairnet. “You’re still too skinny. I’m putting extra cookies on your plate, but no touching them until your steamed carrots are gone.”
“No time for lunch today, Mrs. Esposito,” he said, giving the cookies inside the glass display case a hard look. “I’ll take the cookies, though.”
“A shocking development,” she said, reaching for a pair of tongs with one hand as she opened the display case with the other. “I’ll alert the media.”
He watched her slip two cookies into a paper sleeve branded with the Carlyle Enterprise logo. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were sweet on me.”
Up went one penciled-in, jet-black eyebrow as she held on to the cookies. “How goes the plan to reunite Sawyer with his former best friend?”
What the—?
How he managed to not let his jaw drop to the floor he wasn’t sure. He shouldn’t be shocked. The woman was more plugged into the goings on at Carlyle Tower—and the people who worked inside it—than just about anyone else.
“Is there anything you don’t know?” he asked.
“The winning Lotto numbers. Other than that?” She pulled a face and shrugged her shoulders. “No. Plus your mother came in for a non-fat, soy milk latte Friday morning.”
And there was the answer to that question. Mom and Mrs. Esposito must have been doing a little complimentary intelligence gathering. The secrets those two could crack if they ever teamed up on a professional basis would be astounding—and as scary as shit. He snagged the bag of cookies from her, took one out, and broke it in half—handing one part to her. She accepted it as her due and poured two small glasses of milk, pushing one across the counter to him.
He dunked his cookie and took a bite. “So, you spent the weekend wondering how much progress I’d made in two short days?”
“It was something to do while I scrubbed my shower grout,” she said before taking a bite of the cookie.
“I know Sawyer has a cleaning crew over to your apartment once a week,” he said, not liking the idea of her working in slippery conditions. He and Sawyer had already all but ensured that her work in the Carlyle Tower cafeteria was supervisory only. “You don’t have to do that.”
She made a noncommittal snort and took another bite of the cookie. “Myron says I don’t have to work anymore, either, to cover our bills, and yet here I am.”
“The place wouldn’t be the same without you,” he said, turning on the full wattage of the Carlyle charm.
“Enough pretty talk,” she said, even as she seemed to grow another inch taller. “Give me the update.”
He thought about telling her the version of the plan his mom thought he was following, but in the end, he just couldn’t lie to her—or he needed a confidante. He wasn’t sure which. So he gave her the quick summary of his genius plan to get Tyler to want her so she’d be free to choose a better man for herself—leaving out the part about hoping she’d choose him for however brief a time it took to work her out of his system and onto his canvas—including his deal with Felicia and dinner last night. What happened after dinner—and the fact that it had kept him up most of the night and weekend—he kept to himself.
Mrs. Esposito brushed the cookie crumbs into her hand and dropped them into a nearby trash can before adding their empty glasses to the dirty dish bucket on a rolling cart that one of her kitchen minions would deliver to the dishwasher. Once her dominion was set back to rights, she turned to him, a considering look on her face that had him wondering what in the hell he’d missed or if he’d said more than he’d intended.
“I see. So how does helping this Felicia woman decide she doesn’t want Tyler make things better between him and your brother exactly?” she asked.
“Oh, it doesn’t exactly. But she’s not right for him. Never would be. But there is a woman I think is perfect for him,” If anyone could handle someone like Tyler, it was Everly. “And this might be just the thing to spur her into seeing what’s right in front of her eyes, too. Love makes people do crazy things, right?” It was the reason why wars were fought, painters picked up the brush, and the world turned.
Up went that penciled-in eyebrow. “You know this from personal experience, huh?”
“Not when you keep turning down my marriage proposals,” he said, returning to the teasing tone he always used to deflect in these situations when the real him had started to poke through the Hudson Carlyle facade.
“I’m a married woman,” she said, chuckling. “And even if I wasn’t, you couldn’t handle me.”
“True enough, Mrs. Esposito.” He gave her a wink and grabbed his remaining cookie. “Now off I go up to Sawyer’s office to see how making plans to use those tickets has greased the wheels of progress.”
“Do you need directions?” she teased. “I could draw a map.”
“You’re killing me, Mrs. Esposito.” He laughed as he walked away. “Thanks for the cookies.”
He snarfed down the second cookie in the elevator on the way up to Sawyer’s office on the sixty-third floor, appeasing the dread monster shredding his stomach with every floor number that lit up showing his rise. God, he hated this building. No. It wasn’t the building, it was the expectations that came with it. Sawyer had been playing with blocks and crayon spreadsheets from birth. Hudson had ignored the blocks and used the crayons to color the walls. All his life, he’d known two things with absolute certainty. One, his family loved him. Two, there was no career path for him except one that led to Carlyle Tower. Oh, he’d fought against it, but the last name Carlyle came at a price—one that eventually led to him lying to the very people who deserved the truth. So that’s how he’d ended up with an office on the same floor as Sawyer that he visited once a quarter. He spent his time between trips to his secret painting studio at the cabin wining and dining clients—more often entertaining the spouses so Sawyer could negotiate the business end of things—and counting down the hours until he could get a paintbrush back in his hands.
The elevator doors opened and he stuffed that thought to the back and let his shoulders relax as he sauntered out. Sawyer’s executive assistant, Amara Grant, sat behind her desk.
“Afternoon, Hudson,” she said, her fingers not missing a beat as they flew across the keyboard.
If multitasking was an Olympic sport, Amara would be the world record holding gold medalist.
“Hey there,” he said, walking out into the open space that served as Amara’s kingdom. “How are the kids?”
“Jaden just made varsity basketball and all-county honor roll,” she said, continuing to clack away on the keyboard. “Kai brought home a Tae Kwon Do championship trophy and decided she’ll be the youngest African American woman elected president.”
“So, they’re slacking off as usual.”
She laughed. “You here for your brother? He’s in with Clover, and the door’s unlocked so it should be safe.”
He groaned, definitely not wanting his brain to go there. “I do not need that mental image.”
Amara’s fingers stopped, and she looked up at him with an evil grin. “Why do you think I told you?”
Her chuckle and the clicking of the keys followed him through the big double doors behind Amara’s desk and into Sawyer’s office. His brother and Clover were seated next to each other at the conference table with spreadsheets and piles of research and estimates spread out around them.
“Making another pitch for total world domination?” he asked.
Clover looked up over her shoulder, a smile on her face. “Why think small? Try total universe domination.”
“All we need is for you to dazzle a few aliens,” Sawyer said.
“Consider it done.” He pulled out the Giants tickets from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I brought these for you and Tyler.”
His brother’s face lit up, and he accepted the tickets as if they were mini Rembrandts. “How did you manage to get these?” he asked. “I couldn’t get ahold of them no matter how much I offered.”
“I have my ways.” The kind he wasn’t about to tell his brother.
Not after what happened last time Hudson had started to bring up his secret painting at a family event. If it hadn’t have been for his father’s supposed clean bill of health, maybe they would have realized his shortness of breath and the tingling in his hand had been the first symptoms of potential heart trouble. Six months and one massive heart attack later and Michael Carlyle was gone.
“Thanks, man.” Sawyer strode to his desk and put the tickets into the top drawer.
“There is a catch,” he said, settling down onto the guest chair on the other side of Sawyer’s desk. “You have to take Tyler.”
His brother glowered at him and pulled out one of the tickets. “Here. Take the extra ticket back.”
“Nope.” Hudson shook his head. He’d given up one of his favorite painting for those tickets, and he wasn’t going to let a little victory slip through his fingers because of his brother’s stubbornness. So he turned and did a little spin work. “Tyler has made connections all over Asia and is consulting with some of the biggest companies over there. That’s Carlyle Enterprises’ biggest target area for growth right now, and we can’t afford to continue this little middle school feud you two have going.”
The grimace slid off his brother’s face, replaced by a smarmy grin. “Mom will be so proud. Is the prodigal son finally coming home to the family business?” He turned to Clover, shaking his head. “You know, he tried to walk away from it all in college.” Then turned back to Hudson. “What was it? Painting? Photography?”
Something sharp slashed his stomach lining, but he managed not to flinch. “Painting.”
“That’s right,” Sawyer said. “Your talents for schmoozing would have been highly missed.”
“Especially if Sawyer had to be in charge of it,” Clover said, teasing her husband with the truth and then turning her notices-everything-attention on Hudson. “I didn’t know you are a painter.”
“Was,” Sawyer said, relieving Hudson from having to do anything but pretend it didn’t matter. “He stopped in college after dad almost lost his mind about it.”
“Why?” she asked.
Now wasn’t that the question he’d never been able to find a good answer for. So instead of fighting, he developed an alter-ego one that was starting to weigh on him. The urge to tell them the truth built up pressure inside him until it physically hurt. The words, admitting the truth, were pushing against his lips when he realized that Clover had gone white and was pressing her lips together hard.
“Are you okay?” he asked, all thoughts of revealing he was Hughston pushed to the side again.
“I’m fine. It’s just I’m fighting some nasty morning sickness,” she said, her hand rubbing circles over her belly. “It’ll pass. It always does.”
“You’re pregnant?”
Sawyer laughed as he pulled out a chair for his wife. “Come on. I suck with details, and even I would have connected morning sickness and pregnancy without having to ask.”
“We just found out, and we’re waiting a few more weeks before sharing the news. I’m a little cautious on making it public because I know so many people who’ve had miscarriages.”
His brain took a second to catch up with the announcement. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Say congratulations,” she said, color coming back into her face as she smiled.
“And wish for a calm and stressless pregnancy,” Sawyer said, looking down at his wife with so much emotion on his face it was uncomfortable to see.
Shit. Poking old family scars by revealing he was Hughston sure wouldn’t give Clover the stress-free environment the happy couple wanted. He vowed then and there to keep his mouth shut. Their news was better anyway. Who didn’t love welcoming a new generation into the family?
“Congratulations,” he said, hugging Clover and high-fiving his brother. “This is great news.”
“Just promise us one thing,” she said, her voice muffled by Hudson’s shoulder. “We wanted to tell Helene ourselves, but not for a few more weeks.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” Hudson promised, figuring his mom had probably already guessed anyway, the buzzing of his phone saving him from saying any more. “Sorry, I need to check this.”
He pulled his phone out of his front pocket and swiped his thumb across the lock screen.
Felicia: OMG, Tyler just asked me out. You are officially wrong about last night.
He read the text again. It didn’t make any more sense on the second reading.
Hudson: What kind of date?
Felicia: Coffee
Sawyer and Clover had gone back to the papers spread out on the conference table, but his sister-in-law kept sneaking looks over at him. Ignoring her penetrating gaze as best he could, he kept his attention on his phone.
Hudson: Where? When?
Felicia: A place close by. Soon.
What are you hiding, Matches?
Hudson: ?
Felicia: OK fine. It’s at the museum coffee shop in 30.
Loving that she was finally starting to get comfortable enough around him to let her secret fiery side out, he could actually hear her huff at the end of the text.
Hudson: Did he use the term date?
Felicia: He said he wanted a quick chat.
Nice try, but no fire, Matches. The tightness in his chest eased.
Hudson: 1. I’m not wrong. 2. It’s not a date, but that doesn’t mean you can’t flirt. Just don’t go all meme stalker girl on him. 3. Remember the other night’s lesson: seduction can’t be forced.
He stared at his phone waiting for the dot-dot-dot bubble announcing her answer was incoming but none came. No doubt she was glaring at her phone and calling him every name in the book right about now for bringing up her screaming orgasm. That was okay. He could take it. Preferably in person again.
“Whatever that was,” Clover said, drawing his attention up from his phone. “It sure did put a smile on your face.”
Out of habit, he flipped his phone over to keep the truth hidden. “Just a little project I’m working on.”
“Another secret one?” Sawyer asked.
He shrugged and offered up a lazy grin. “Is there any other kind with me?”
His phone vibrated in his hand and he looked down, wondering what insult she’d finally come up with.
Felicia: You’re infuriating.
He added insults to the lessons-for-Felicia list because for the youngest of seven, she was horrible at it.
Hudson: Kisses right back, Matches.
Standing, he slipped his phone back in his front pocket, ready to face down the questions that were surely coming next. His family was nothing if not nosy and interfering—not that he was an exception to that rule.
“Was it the woman from the other night? Felicia?” Clover asked, obviously taking to the Carlyle creed. “I liked her.”
So did he. He especially liked the way she’d come so hard around his fingers the other night that his dick had been jealous for days. That wanton look on her face as she bit her bottom lip and just let go, spreading her legs wider so he could get a better angle, had haunted him over the weekend, and he’d jerked off more times than he’d thought possible for a thirty-year-old man with a healthy and full sex life up until a week ago.
“It’s not serious,” Hudson said. “It never is with me, remember?”
After all, she was about to have coffee with that douche-canoe, Tyler Jacobson. The guy she was probably thinking about when Hudson had made her come last night. He gritted his teeth as a tight knot formed in his stomach, the kind made of electrified barbed wire and poisoned lead—not because he gave a shit. No. Felicia was just someone he was helping, a project—one that wasn’t ready for a public debut yet. She was still untreated canvas. That’s all it was.
“Too bad,” Clover said, her tone a little too neutral to be believable.
“Don’t worry about me, I’ll manage.” On guard because she seemed to always see a little bit more of the truth about him than either his mom or brother, Hudson gave Clover his patented don’t-hate-the-player grin before turning back to his brother. “Now, Sawyer, can you be trusted not to fuck up an evening at the ballpark with Tyler or do I have to find a third ticket so Clover can supervise you?”
“Oh no,” she sputtered, her hands up in protest. “You’re not getting me near the two of them. My ears were bleeding last night from all the baseball talk.”
“Looks like you’re on your own, bro.”
“Great,” Sawyer muttered. “This’ll be as much fun as going to the flea market.”
“Hey,” Clover squawked, her love of all things refurbished and refinished had become legendary after she’d out-negotiated Sawyer—something that was unheard of in their family. “You like going there now.”
“No,” Sawyer said with a suggestive grin. “I like watching your ass as you strut around looking for deals.”
Clover rolled her eyes and shook her head, glancing over at Hudson. “Can you do something about your brother?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been trying my entire life and failing miserably.”
Sawyer crumpled up a piece of paper from the conference table and launched it at Hudson, who dodged it with ease. Then, his brother leaned down and whispered something in Clover’s ear that made her eyes go wide and her cheeks turn pink. Deciding that his mission here was complete, Hudson got out of the office and into the elevator before those two got any more sickening. He made it all the way to the fiftieth floor before he pulled out his phone and texted Felicia for an update.