If I wasn’t so busy hating Hudson, I’d probably find his intense passion kind of sexy …
“No,” I say.
“Excuse me?” he scoffs, smoothing his thin black tie down his muscled chest before straightening his shoulders.
“When you speak to me like that,” I say, holding my head high, “it makes me want to tune you out. I can’t help it. It’s an automatic reaction.”
His jaw clenches, but his eyes glint, and I wonder if he’s ever had an assistant speak up before.
Doubtful.
“Am I supposed to speak to you like you’re on my level? Like we’re equals?” he asks, chuffing. “Mary, I’m your boss. Your superior.”
“Which is exactly why you should talk to me with a little more respect. It’s called being professional.” My lips are tight and numb. I can’t believe I’m saying this … “I make your coffee. I field your calls. I grab your lunch. I do anything and everything you ask because let’s face it, I’m the idiot who signed up for this job, but you treat me like your whipping post. If you forget something, it’s always my fault. If someone else forgets something, it’s always somehow my fault. If you’re having a bad day, it’s my fault. If I only work sixty hours instead of my scheduled forty, you make me feel like a slacker. If I ask for a day off, nine times out of ten, I’m told ‘no.’ It’s exhausting working for you, Hudson. It’s only been two months, and I can’t do it anymore.”
“So what are you saying?” he asks. I try to get a read on his expressionless face, but it’s impossible. He’s a man who holds his cards close to his chest at all times. I’m not sure whether he’s panicked, relieved, or something else entirely.
Pointing to the letter on the top of his mail pile, I say, “I quit.”
I turn on my heels and show myself out of his office, hurrying to get the hell out of the place I’ve come to call the Pristine Palace for the last two months.
“Wait,” he calls after me as I head for my desk to gather my things. I glance behind me, only to see him standing in his glass doorway. “I’d like to make you an offer before you go.”
Ha. Just as I expected.
I smirk, rolling my eyes as I keep walking. “No thanks.”
“Mary.” There’s a deep husk in his voice, but I continue strutting away, my heels clicking on the reclaimed wood floor.
When I reach my desk, I grab my bag from the bottom drawer and toss a few personal items inside: my hand cream, lip balm, a tiny bag of emergency chocolate, and my back up water bottle. I’d toss some company pens in there too because they’re fancy as hell, but I prefer never to so much as glance at the Rutherford Architecture logo ever again. Before I forget, I slide the elevator key to his penthouse apartment off my keyring and slap it on the desktop.
“Fine.” The sudden, close proximity of Hudson’s voice jumpstarts my heart. I glance up to see him standing before me, his smooth hands splayed across my desk and his back arched. His sapphire blue eyes meet mine, refusing to let them go. “You can quit. Be my fucking guest. I’ll have you replaced by tomorrow afternoon.”
I offer a faux smile. “Glad everything’s going to work out for you.”
I fling my bag over my shoulder and stand tall, eyes grazing past his shoulder toward the elevator bay where the doors part and Hannah from Accounting steps off. Our eyes meet, and she gives me what is clearly her “Oh, shit …” face.
It’s a shame I won’t be sticking around long enough to tell her everything’s fine. Everything’s abso-fucking-lutely fine.
“Goodbye, Hudson. And best of luck in finding a suitable replacement. I’m sorry I couldn’t be what you needed.” I move out from behind my desk and give him a sarcastic smirk, only I’m not prepared when he slips his hand around my wrist and guides me closer to him. “What the hell are you doing?”
I yank my hand from his, clutching it against my chest, fingers balled into a tight fist.
“One last thing before you go …” he says, his eyes softening just enough that I almost believe he’s being sincere for the first time since I’ve known him.
Trying not to laugh too loud, I shake my head. “No.”
“Hear me out,” he says.
“Why should I?”
“Because I’ll make it worth your while.”
Rolling my eyes, I suck in a deep breath, mulling over the extent of my curiosity. What could he possibly need from me, a disgruntled employee in the midst of storming out of his office?
My stomach gurgles and another wave of morning sickness evolves into an impressive hot flash. A sheen of sweat forms across my forehead. I think I’m going to be sick, and if he doesn’t get the hell out of my way, I’m about to be sick all over his immaculate Prada suit.
The wave passes, dissipating into nothing, and I pull in a clean breath of the hospital-grade air Hudson insists on piping through the office vents because it helps “keep his energy clean.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but there isn’t anything you could say or do at this point that would convince me to work another day next to you. I won’t be doing you any favors, Hudson. You disgust me.”
Oh, god. Here comes another round of word vomit, rising up my chest with unstoppable force.
“You walk around like you’re better than everyone,” I add. “You’re self-centered. And arrogant. And cold. And inconsiderate. And rude. And you’re delusional if you think you’re going to get me to stick around, so, goodbye.”
The corner of his mouth smirks, revealing a half-second flash of a dimple that sends an inconvenient and unexpected weakness to my knees. I hate how distracting and disarming his good looks are.
“Calm down, Mary.” His voice is low, and when he leans in close, I find myself inhaling—and enjoying—the warm, musky scent radiating off his skin. “I know I’m a pain in the ass to work for. Well aware.”
“Then why don’t you try to change that?”
“Why should I? There’s an entire city full of girls just like you begging to work here. Why should I have to change who I am to accommodate them? Besides, there’s a whole world of assholes just like me—no, worse than me—waiting on the outside. If my employees can’t handle me, they’re sure as hell not going to be able to handle the next guy. The way I see it, I’m doing you all a favor. I’m prepping you for the real world.”
“I refuse to believe bosses like you are the norm.”
“Then you’re extremely naïve.” He huffs, his indigo-blue eyes lifting to the ceiling then back to me. “Anyway, three million dollars.”
“Three million dollars—what?” I squint at him, not sure where he’s going with this.
“If you agree to help me out, I’ll give you three million dollars. Cash. And then you’ll never have to work with this insufferable asshole ever again.”
He’s got to be joking.
“Aside from the fact that you’ve officially lost it, I’m not sticking around, not here. Not as your personal assistant. I’m better than this.”
“I’m not asking you to be my personal assistant.”
“Okay, whatever it is, I’m not interested. I have a degree in business analytics and international marketing with a minor in finance.” My arms tighten across my chest. I’m not interested in his bait money or whatever the hell kind of stunt he’s attempting to pull. “I know my worth, and I know when a job isn’t worth it.”
“So you understand that three million dollars is a pretty generous amount of money, yes? Since you, uh, minored in finance and you know all about … worth?” He’s trying to fight a smile, like he’s not taking me seriously.
“Can you not?” I lift my hand to my right hip.
“Not what?”
“Can you not be so patronizing? It never ends with you.”
“I’ll work on it,” he says. “If you stick around.”
“No need,” I remind him. “I’m not.”
“Swallow your pride and agree to help me,” he says. “You won’t regret it.”
“No,” I
say with as much conviction as I can drum up. A wave of nausea rolls over me once more, a silent reminder that it’s not about me anymore. “Whatever it is … no.”
About a month ago, after a sexually debilitating dry spell no twenty-five-year-old should ever have to endure, I downloaded one of those stupid dating apps that everyone knows is really only used for hooking up, and I found myself the perfect one-night stand.
I thought I was smart about it. I’m on the pill. He used a condom. All precautionary measures were taken.
He was Ivy League educated, or so he claimed, and he had one of those rich people names, Hollis. His photos were all Nantucket and sailboats and he quoted F. Scott Fitzgerald in his bio. When we met, Hollis was friendly and well-mannered, well-groomed and clean cut. With disarming honey brown eyes and thick, sandy brown hair, he was everything he had shown himself to be. And the night was satisfying enough if not a little boring. But it filled the void and accomplished the mission, and we both went on our ways.
But a few days ago, I happened to pop open my birth control pack and realized I was three days past my week of sugar pills with no sign of Aunt Flo. An hour later, I’d purchased a variety of highly sensitive pregnancy tests from the local Duane Reade, never believing in a million years I’d find myself face-to-face with a myriad of pale blue plus signs and pink happy faces.
That’s the day the bottom dropped out.
Hollis was the first person I called—it only seemed right since he was the father. But his number was conveniently no longer in service. I had no way of getting a hold of him and no way of knowing what his last name was. I even spent hours trying to find him again on the dating app, but it was as if he’d just disappeared into thin air.
So now it’s just us …
Me and this tiny little life I’m now fully responsible for—on my own.
This weekend I’ll pack up my place, rent a moving truck with whatever credit remains on my MasterCard, and hightail it back to Nebraska. I can’t afford to raise a baby in this city, at least not by myself. And now that I don’t have a job, I can’t afford the rent on my shoebox studio anyway.
“You’re a fool.” Hudson watches me sling my purse over my shoulder, and then he eyes the elevator bay in the distance. “With this money, the right investments, and a little time, you could be an extremely wealthy woman. Now you’re going to spend the rest of your life working for assholes exactly like me because you were too proud to say yes to this one little favor.”
“You’re planting doubt in my head,” I say. “You’re trying to manipulate me. I see through you, Hudson. Always have. You’re nothing more than a self-serving asshole. You couldn’t shut it off if you tried.”
“You’re right. Me and every other man in this city.” His soft, strong hands slip into his pants pockets and he exhales like a man who shamelessly owns his behavior and makes no apologies. “Anyway, aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know what I want from you?”
“Not really.” My lips bunch in one corner. “You pay me forty grand a year here, which isn’t really a livable wage in this city, I might add. And you work me to the bone. I shudder to think of how much work three million dollars would entail.”
“Can you act, Mary?” he asks, ignoring my refusal.
“That’s random.”
“It’s not random at all. It’s pretty straightforward. Stop wasting my time and answer it.”
“I was in drama club in high school,” I say, smoothing my hair from my face and pulling my shoulders back like a proud drama nerd. “And for a couple years in college. I’ve done community theatre as well.”
Hudson smiles.
I’ve never seen him full-on smile like this.
“Perfect.” His blue eyes crinkle at the corner. “I have to have you, Mary. You’re hired.”
My jaw hangs. “I’m … what? I didn’t say … I don’t want ... no.”
Hudson wraps his hand around my wrist, pulling me just outside the front doors of the office and out of earshot of the rest of his staff.
“Listen,” he says, voice low. He tightens the space between us. “I’m sure you’re wondering what the fuck I’m about to propose, and rightfully so. But believe me when I tell you it’s going to change your life. And mine—because I’m a self-serving bastard and we both know that. But it’ll be the easiest three million you’ll ever make in your life, and when it’s all said and done, you’ll never have to see me—or work for anyone like me—ever again. It’s win-win, Mary. And you’d be a damn fool to walk away.”
I inhale, harboring a breath before letting it go. When our eyes meet, I silently chide myself for remotely considering making a deal with this devil.
Sure, he’s impossibly handsome with his chiseled jaw, dimpled smirk, coffee-colored hair, deep blue eyes, runner’s build, designer wardrobe, and genius IQ—not that I’ve taken inventory of his assets before … but none of that is enough to overpower the ugliness that resides beneath his perfect, polished façade.
Without saying a word, I turn on my heel and press the call button on the nearest elevator.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice rushed.
The doors part, and I step on, flashing a smirk and shrugging my shoulders. “Being a damn fool.”
Chapter 2
Hudson
The overpowering scent of curry and fried takeout smacks me in the face when I enter her building, and the stairway to the third floor is poorly lit and narrow—clearly not up to code. I check the email on my phone once more, ensuring I have the right place, and then I turn the corner at the top of the stairs.
My gaze lands on the crooked number five at the end of the hall, and I straighten the knot of my tie before clearing my throat and proceeding.
This woman hates me—literally hates me—and I’m about to ask her an enormous favor. But it’s precisely the reason she’s perfect for this.
Three knocks on her door a moment later fail to elicit an answer, so I try again. And again. This building is noisy and busy, but I swear I hear someone shuffling around on the other side of the door.
She stormed out of my office earlier this morning, and while the question has been lingering on the tip of my tongue for hours now and I’m not accustomed to taking “no” for an answer, I figured I should give her some time and space before approaching her again.
“I know you’re in there. Open up,” I call through the door, knocking yet again. “Seriously, I don’t have all day, I—”
The door swings open and my future fiancée stands on the other side, a hand on one curved hip and her sultry, hooded blue eyes glaring in my direction.
“What are you doing here?” she asks with the raspy, Scarlett Johansson voice that’s driven me wild since the day she waltzed into my office in a tight little pencil skirt and an almost-transparent white button-down.
Peering over her shoulder, I glance into what is clearly a studio apartment approximately the size of my walk in closet. Furnished with flea market finds and a garish color scheme that makes zero sense, it immediately makes my skin crawl, but I shake it off because I didn’t come here to critique the way she designs her living space. Besides, she’s going to be living with me soon enough, and this place will become all but a distant memory.
“We weren’t able to finish our conversation earlier.” I straighten my shoulders, peering down. She’s dressed in tight black leggings and a pink t-shirt that stops just beneath her navel, leaving her midriff slightly exposed. My cock pulses against my slacks. “May I come in?”
Her nose wrinkles, but her Midwestern manners won’t allow her to slam the door in my face. Sighing, she steps back, letting the door open a little wider, and I step inside.
“Thank you, Mari,” I say.
“Wait. So you do know my name.”
“Of course I know your name. I’m not an imbecile.”
“So why’d you always—”
“—I have my reasons.” I offer a haughty smirk. “It creates interpersonal distan
ce, which I find is ideal for workplace relationships. An assistant should never get too close to her employer. Or too comfortable. I also wanted to test your patience, see how well you worked under frustrating circumstances.”
She lets out a sarcastic huff. “Mission accomplished, Hudson. Bravo. Well done.”
I glance at the stove several steps behind her, where she appears to be making ramen.
“Are you hungry, Mari?” I ask.
The timer beeps, and she grabs a nearby bowl, dumping the boiling water and soggy noodles in one fluid movement. It lands with a wet plop.
“Yeah,” she says, eyes squinting. “But I’ve kind of got a handle on that right now, so please. Say what you came here to say because I’m about to eat my dinner, catch up on some Game of Thrones, and pretend like today wasn’t one of the most annoying days of my life.”
Mari takes a seat at a makeshift island barely big enough to accommodate two small bar stools and wraps her noodles around her fork, blowing on them with her full, cherry lips before taking a bite.
I chuckle. “All right. Fine. I came here because I want you to marry me.”
She begins to cough, her hands covering her mouth, and I go to her, placing my hand on the small of her back.
“You okay?” I ask.
She nods, trying to catch her breath. Reaching for a napkin, she wipes her mouth before crushing it in her hand.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she finally responds. “I would never marry you.”
“Here’s the deal,” I say. “We’re approaching summer, which, in the Rutherford family, means wedding season and a four-week mandatory stay at the family estate in Montauk. I’m turning thirty next month, and my parents have a sort of agreement with the Sheffield family that if I’m not married by thirty, I’ll be promised to their daughter, Audrina. Our mothers have literally been counting down the days since we were babies, chomping at the bit to plan the wedding of the century.”
“No one can force you to marry someone you don’t want to marry.”
“Ah, maybe that’s so for most, Mari. But not in my family. My parents have ways,” I say. “They won’t hesitate to make my life … difficult … if I don’t adhere.”
The Perfect Illusion Page 2
