: Chapter 13

“You okay?” I ask Hudson, who is standing at baggage claim, looking practically green.

“No,” he says curtly.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No.”

“Hey, guys,” Devin says as he comes up to us with a wave. “Customs was fun.” He eyes Hudson up and down. “Dude, you don’t look so good.”

“I think he’s feeling a little airsick,” I say as I rub Hudson’s back. “And it was hot over in customs. I think he just needs some fresh air and⁠—”

Hudson takes off running before I can finish my sentence. I watch him throw up into the garbage can as Devin winces next to me.

“Yikes, that’s not an ideal way to start a trip.”

“Yeah, not so much,” I say, watching Hudson heave into the trash can. The champagne was a bad, bad choice on his part.

Did I ignore Hudson to the point that he was actually asking me to talk with him? That was the plan, right? Melva plotted it out, it worked like a charm, and he was begging to have a conversation—and let me tell you, it took everything in me not to fall into the trap of conversing with him.

But now…now that he’s clearly not feeling well… I feel bad, because no matter how many times he shooed me away, cut me off from digging deep with him or flat-out just trying to form a connection, I still don’t like seeing him like this, and I feel responsible. I know the whole point was to get him to the place where he’s acting…well, like this, but now that he’s getting drunk, throwing up, because he’s upset on account of me? Yeah, it makes me feel two things. For one…awful. I don’t like putting people in that kind of situation. And two, he’s tugging very hard on my heartstrings.

Hudson lifts up from the trash can, takes a few deep breaths, and then heads into the men’s room, where I’m sure he’s going to freshen up.

“Tough day,” Devin says.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’ll be better soon,” I say while the bags start flowing down the carousel, our driver looking out for our luggage.

“I’m serious about the dance lessons,” Devin says. “I don’t mind helping you out. We might even end up being partners in the dancing at the wedding, so it could help to practice with you.”

“Oh, uh, thanks,” I say as I glance over to the bathrooms.

I know what Stacey and Melva would tell me to do in this situation. They’d say take him up on his offer. Make Hudson eat his words, turning me down over and over.

But for the life of me, I can’t fathom doing that to Hudson.

Not after I read those texts and not after the state I saw him in.

He’d lose his mind.

Not to mention, he’d probably be sad, and let me tell you, when he’s sad, it does something to my heart. Like a rusty fork, stabbing me over and over again. I can’t take it.

The bottom line is: I do like Hudson. Yes, he can be brusque and, to quote him, an asshole. But I do know he’s a man of substance and honor. Devin was…well, he was fun when we spent time together. And even though it wasn’t that long ago, I honestly can’t imagine fooling around with him again now. Not since I’ve met Hudson.

Not since I married Hudson and committed my time and loyalty to him.

“Thank you for offering to help me with the dances, but I think I’d like to learn the dances with my husband,” I answer.

“I get it.” Devin nudges me with his elbow. “Looking to add some romance to your marriage?”

“Yeah,” I say absentmindedly as I stare at the bathroom, waiting for Hudson to return.

“Should be a fun time, though. Are you excited about the wedding?”

“I am,” I say.

“How do you even know Sheridan?”

“Uh…huh, you know. I don’t.”

“What do you mean you don’t?” Devin asks.

“I’m just a filler for her.”

“What do you mean a filler?”

“One of her bridesmaids broke her leg, and she needed someone to fill in, and Hudson is an investor in a company called Bridesmaid for Hire. I was available, and the rest is history.”

“Oh, wow. I had no idea you were doing that kind of work.”

“I’m not. I actually work for Hudson’s company,” I say. “But I guess I was in the right place at the right time.”

Finally, Hudson appears from the men’s room, and he’s looking rough.

Like really rough.

“Excuse me,” I say and take off toward him as he walks incredibly slowly toward the baggage claim.

When I reach him, I put my arm around him and whisper, “Are you okay?”

“Not even a little,” he says.

“Okay, uh, why don’t you take a seat on this bench, and I’ll tell the driver that we’re going to wait here for him?”

“Okay,” he answers as if he’s in pain. He takes a seat on the bench, and I go back to the driver, letting him know where we will be.

He goes off to get a trolley to help with the luggage while I wave bye to Devin and tell him I’ll see him later. Then I head back and sit next to Hudson, where he lays his head on my lap and I gently run my fingers through his hair.

It’s the same position we take in the car to the hotel.

And it’s the same exact position we find when we make it inside our hotel room after the quickest check-in process I’ve ever seen. Our bags were brought up for us, and when we reached the room, the bellman shut the drapes and had water and saltines brought to the room as well.

Hudson booked us a suite, so not only do we have a living room with a separate bedroom, but we also have a terrace that looks over Hyde Park. We’re on the couch with a trash can in front of us and a clammy Hudson on my lap.

I sift my hands through his hair and ask, “Think you can have some water?”

He threw up three times in the car, and I’m starting to think it wasn’t the champagne that’s causing this, more like food poisoning.

“No,” he croaks.

“The bellman was saying they could send a company up that administers IVs. Think you could manage that? Get some electrolytes pumping back into your system?”

“Maybe…in a bit,” he says.

“Okay, well, do you want me to give you some space? I can get you set up in the bedroom.”

“No,” he says quickly and then clings to my leg. “Don’t leave.”

“Okay,” I say softly, a smile playing on my lips—not because I’m happy about him being sick but because…men are such babies.

Hudson doesn’t give off needy vibes, especially when he’s wearing one of his suits and making multimillion-dollar deals happen in his office, but the moment he doesn’t feel good, he becomes the clingiest man I’ve ever met. I continue to run my hands through his hair, hating this quiet moment but also loving it at the same time. This is a problem, because I’m getting a taste of his softer side, the side he doesn’t want to show me.

It’s breaking down my defenses.

It’s causing me to…feel things.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Sorry for what?” I ask.

“Ruining the first part of your trip to London.”

“You don’t need to apologize. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”

“You know…if you want, you can leave. I don’t want to keep you here against your will.”

“You’re not holding me against my will.”

“You sure?” he says in the groggy voice. “After the last few days, I would have thought this wasn’t for you.”

“I believe I vowed to be with you in sickness and health, so this is me performing my wifely duties.”

“You’re good at it,” he says.

“Funny how flattering you can be when you’re not acting like an ass.”

“Yeah…I know. I’m sorry you have to deal with me.”

“It’s also surprising how many times you apologize. Maybe you should be sick more often.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Thank you. He’s in the living room,” I say as I let the nurses in. We took the hotel up on bringing some IVs up here because, even though he’s stopped throwing up, he’s not looking great. He hasn’t been able to keep anything down.

I follow the two nurses into the living room, where Hudson is stretched across the sofa with the TV on in the background. We found reruns of the UK version of The Office, and we’ve been watching that as Hudson has been switching from throwing up to sleeping. Now he’s transitioned to dry heaving, so we think he’s got it all out of his system.

“I’m going to take a quick shower while they hook you up, okay?”

He glances up at me, and I can see it in his eyes that he doesn’t want me to leave. Which is hilarious to me, because here is this man, this strong alpha man, brought to his knees by some food poisoning.

He’s needy, clingy, and flat-out pathetic.

Yet here I am, at his beck and call. Can’t say that I’m proud of what I’m about to say, but I like the neediness. I live for his clingy arms. And I enjoy watching just how pathetic he is when I shift away. Like I said, not proud of it, but it’s true. It’s nice to be wanted.

“Or I can stay here with you,” I say while I take a seat back on the couch and let him rest his head on my lap.

“Can you please turn to your back?” the nurse asks, and he does, very slowly. I rest my hand on his chest and gently run my thumb over his pec, while my other hand continues to run through his hair, something I’ve found he really enjoys.

The nurses get to work finding a vein, poking him, and setting him up with some fluids. Once they hang the IV bag up, they tell us they’re going to step outside and come back to check on us in a little while. I give them a key card, so they can come in easily.

Once the door is shut, I ask, “You doing okay?”

“Yeah,” he whispers, his eyes drifting shut.

“Tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I can let you sleep if you want.”

“Why do you keep trying to get away from me?” he asks, his eyes peeking open to look up at me.

“I’m not, just wanting to give you your space.”

“Isn’t it obvious, Sloane?” he says in his delirium. “I don’t want space from you.”

“What do you want?”

“I don’t know,” he says on a sigh. “All I know is I can’t have you.”

“Something you don’t seem to want me to forget.”

“You can’t forget,” he says. “Because when I slip up, I need you to remind me.”

“Slip up?” I ask.

He nods and closes his eyes. “It’s bound to happen. No way in hell I can hold out. You need to remind me.”

Slip up? Remind him?

Is he insane? As if I would ever stop him from making a move. Melva’s plan be damned.

“And if I don’t?” I ask as my fingers stroke his luscious hair.

“Then we’re fucked. So…you need to be the moral compass.”

“I don’t like that responsibility.”

“Someone needs to be responsible.”

“I don’t know, you’re doing a pretty good job,” I say.

“I hate it. I don’t want to be responsible.”

Neither do I.

I run my hand over his thick pecs, and I notice that his nipples have gotten hard, pointing against the fabric of his shirt.

“It’s best that you are,” I say. “Because I can tell you right now if you ever came up to me, walls down, defenses turned off, and ready to take me up against the wall…there is no way in hell I would stop you.”

His teeth roll over the edge of his lip. “Not the right answer, Sloane.”

“But it’s the correct one.”

I cinch my robe around my waist and step out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, where Hudson is freshly showered and wearing a pair of briefs, looking better than he was this morning. He’s still moving slow, but he said the IV helped a lot, which is great. Especially since he’s been able to keep water down.

“I love that shower,” I say as I dry my hair with my towel.

Hudson glances over at me. “The water pressure is perfect.”

“It is. I could have stayed all day, but the timer they put in the shower made me think about my water choices.”

“Yeah, I saw that. Made me move faster too.”

“I love this hotel. I think it’s one of the nicest I’ve ever stayed in, well, besides the St. Hopper in Bora Bora, but not many hotels can beat bungalows over water.”

“Or Hopper Hotels,” he says reluctantly.

“I’m assuming you refuse to stay in one now.”

“You would assume right,” Hudson says as he makes his way to his side of the bed and slowly sits.

“Do you need anything?”

“No,” he says softly, then lies back on the bed. “I have water. I should be good.”

“Do you feel nauseous anymore?” I finish drying my hair and pick up my brush from the counter and start getting the tangles out.

“No. Feeling better, just exhausted.” He lets out a sigh. “Never having chicken on an airplane again.”

“Don’t blame you. Chicken and champagne, I’m sure you’ll regret the combo for a very long time.”

“Yup.” He checks his phone, and I take that moment to finish getting ready for bed.

It’s early, around 6:00 p.m., but we’re both so exhausted and jet-lagged that we decided to call it a night.

When I’m finished in the bathroom, I turn out the light and head over to the closet, where our clothes have been hung up and put into drawers. I find my pajamas in one of the drawers but also spot a stack of Hudson’s shirts. And I tell myself not to remind myself of what Melva said about making him think I’m completely uninterested, but after the last few days, I just don’t think I can do it anymore.

Not when he’s acting the way he is now.

Appreciative.

Affectionate.

Like he can actually stand to look at me.

Who knows, maybe this could be the start of a friendship at the very least. So I grab one of his shirts, slip out of my robe, and pull it over my head. For a second, I bring the collar to my nose and take a big whiff. God, he smells so good. I could be happy just wrapped up in this.

Pleased with my choice, I exit the closet and enter the bedroom, where I round the bed and turn on the light on my nightstand. He’s still on his phone when I climb under the covers. I kind of wish he saw what I was wearing, but then again, he’s lost an entire day of work, and I’m sure he’s wanting to catch up on running his empire.

I plug my phone in to charge and turn off my light.

I let out a large yawn. Unsure what else to do, I turn away and adjust my pillow.

“Tomorrow,” he says in a distant, distracted voice. “Etiquette classes.”

“Okay,” I answer hesitantly.

“Then Harrods. Do you have something nice to wear to class, or do we need to go to Harrods first?”

I mean, I could use less of the condescending tone that just appeared out of nowhere.

“I brought a few dresses,” I answer.

“Appropriate ones?” he asks.

Okay, sir. No need to be rude.

“Yes, they’re quite appropriate.”

“What’s appropriate to you, Sloane, might not be appropriate to others.”

Excuse me?

Hold on a freaking second.

What’s with the insults?

Have I done something wrong to warrant them? Because the last thing I remember, I just nursed this man back to health. Here I was feeling bad for the doof when I should have known his golden-retriever attitude was only temporary. It’s as though opening his email reminded him of the walls he erected earlier, reminded him of his thoughts about me, Jude’s sister—too young. Look at him asking me questions about whether I can dress myself. Uh, pretty sure the reason why you aren’t still feeling like death is because I took care of you.

God, he’s infuriating.

With a less nurturing tone, I say, “They’re appropriate, Hudson.”

“I’ll approve of them in the morning.”

He’ll approve of them in the morning?

As if I need his approval?

Uh, that’s not how this is going to work.

“Hey,” I say, turning toward him and slapping his phone down. “Insensitive prick. Maybe instead of second-guessing my ability to dress myself appropriately, you could show some appreciation for the shit I did for you today.”

He blinks a few times startled.

Yeah, that’s right, you can’t treat me like that.

“I’m…sorry.”

“That’s right you’re freaking sorry. Christ, Hudson.” I tug on my hair, my frustration getting the better of me. “You get your phone back, and in seconds you become the biggest douche in the world.”

His brows knit together. “I had things I needed to check up on, Sloane.”

“I get that, but also, you’re being a dick to me, and I don’t appreciate it. Did I or did I not lie with you for the past few hours? Did I or did I not make sure you were well-hydrated and taken care of? Even when you were dry heaving into the trash can, I was rubbing your back. Did I not show you how capable I am of managing this, nursing you, making sure you had everything you needed? And then you go and question my outfits? Treating me like some adolescent who has no idea how to act in society. Jesus. That’s being a dick.”

“I’m…I’m sorry.”

“Damn right you are. Jesus.”

With that, I turn back around and line up as close to the edge of the bed as possible because the last thing I want is to slide another inch closer to him.

God, what a freaking ass.

Do you have an appropriate outfit?

Guess what, just because you asked, I’m going to go find some titty tassels to match with a pair of leggings to wear to etiquette. And when they tell me to put clothes on, I’m just going to shake my tits at them. I’m going to let those tits fly. Let them bounce up and down, side to side, flick them in the face with the tassel. Teach them a freaking lesson on payback.

They want to show me how to drink tea with my pinky out? Well, I’ll show them how to seek revenge on your husband/boss/man-child who can’t handle his champagne and salmonella-infused chicken.

Do I have an appropriate outfit?

I inwardly scream.

What a freaking tool!

I hear Hudson set his phone down, and he turns off the light. Internally, I wish him the worst of nightmares, possibly one more dry-heaving session out of nowhere just to remind him of his humility. What I wouldn’t give to hear him at the toilet tonight. Come on, second round!

He shifts on the bed, bumping around like an inconsiderate klutz until he finally settles in.

I half expect him to say good night, but the room falls to silence, and I can see that I’ve been taking care of an ungrateful⁠—

His hand slides over my waist and right to my stomach before he tugs me right into his bare chest.

A gasp falls past my lips from the surprise attack, and I’m about to ask him what the hell he’s doing when he settles his arm around me and snuggles into my body.

And let me tell you, at first, it’s not the most romantic scene.

I lie like a dead fish just washed up by the ocean, stiff as can be, mouth agape, and eyes wide because this, my friends, is confusing.

He is big-spooning me.

Yup, he’s the soupspoon that no one ever wants to use, and I’m the baby teaspoon that people pull out for their charcuterie boards when serving jelly with their Brie.

This is new.

This feels awkward.

But then…

His thumb glides over my stomach as his mouth inches close to my ear. “Relax.”

“Relax?” I laugh as chills spread over my skin. “You want me to relax?”

“Yes, Wife…relax.”

“Well, Husband, it’s hard to relax when I’m harboring a decent amount of animosity toward you. You can’t just swoop in here and act like everything is okay.”

“I know,” he says solemnly.

“You know? Then why are you trying to do that?”

“I…I don’t know how to navigate this, Sloane. I appreciate you. I appreciate everything you did for me today. But I fear that if I speak up about how I feel, I might slip up; I might forget what’s holding me back. And I can’t forget.”

“Hence why we don’t do things like this.”

“I’m well aware.”

“Then why?” I ask. “Why now?”

He clears his throat and his thumb slides over my stomach as he says, “Because I just want a piece of you. Even if it’s a small piece, I want a piece.”

“That’s pretty self-serving. You’re running hot and cold with me. How is that fair?”

“It’s not,” he admits.

Feeling the weight of the words, I turn onto my back so I can look him in the eyes. His hand remains on my stomach. “This is not what⁠—”

“You’re wearing my shirt.”

I glance down at my attire as if he’s surprising me with such information. “Yes, I’m aware. I’m also aware that it was a mistake to put it on.”

“Why?” he asks, his thumb still rubbing my stomach.

“I wish I weren’t wearing your T-shirt because we’re not connected in a way that would result in me wearing your clothes. And for a second, for a minor second, I thought that maybe you had a change of heart, that you were possibly going to be different. But then I was reminded of your behavior. Now I’m thoroughly regretting my decisions. Actually, I think I might go change right now.” I start to move, but his hand clamps around my side, preventing me from going anywhere.

“Please don’t change.”

The heaviness in his voice nearly breaks me, because this is the man who brought me to putting his shirt on in the first place. Not the man with the phone, but the man who seems to wear his heart on his sleeve on occasion. “Why not?”

“Because,” he carefully says, “I like you in my shirt.”

“That’s obvious, given how possessive you’ve been with me. But can you explain to me why it matters?”

“Can we not do this right now?” he asks. “Can we just let it be and sleep?”

“Always skipping out on the real talks,” I say, feeling sad he won’t go there.

“Sloane…”

“No it’s fine.” I wet my lips. “Just so I know that we’re on the same page: You want to sleep like this, with your arm around me?”

He studies me for a few seconds, his eyes searching, before he finally says, “Yes.”

“And I’m supposed to just be okay with it?”

“No,” he answers, his gaze steady on mine. “It’s your choice.”

“Well, my choice is we don’t do this; we shouldn’t do this,” I say and then pluck his hand off my stomach. “My choice is to draw the line because I can’t keep riding on this roller coaster.” I slide to the side a few inches, waiting for his response.

The unhappy expression on his face tells me that he doesn’t approve, but to his credit, he doesn’t press me. Instead he lies down on his pillow, facing me.

“If that is what you want, Sloane.”

No, that is not what I want.

“What I really want is for things to be different between us, for you to always show kindness, to not treat me like some kid, to have confidence in the fact that I know what I’m doing, but I know I won’t get that with you. So yes, this is what I want. This separation. You don’t know what you want, you’re muddying the waters, and I think it’s best that we keep our distance.”

He just nods his head.

“Because you don’t want sex. You don’t want to grow a friendship or a relationship of any sort. You want distance from me. You’ve made that very clear, so I’m just running with the rules you set from the very beginning.”

“I know.”

And I hate that response.

I sort of wished he would say something along the lines of What if I want to change the rules? What if I don’t want distance from you? But that’s not Hudson. He’s stubborn, he’s going to stick to what he said, and I think he would die trying before he ever changed his mind on the true relationship we’re supposed to have as a married couple.

“Okay…good night.”

He’s quiet, so I take that as he’s done with this conversation. Disappointed, I turn away from him and attempt to get comfortable, but I can feel his eyes on me. Even though the room is dark, the curtains shut besides a sliver that’s letting in the light of the moon, I can still feel those eyes on me.

“Sloane?” he says, cutting through the silence.

“What?” I say, exhausted.

“I still want to hold you.”

I squeeze my eyes shut because fuck!

There it is, that voice, those words, they’re like a drug I never knew I needed but that I crave.

“Please,” he says softly. I clamp my mouth shut, my frustration rocking through me, because why? Why does he have to be like this? When Melva wrote out this plan, did she expect him to show this softer side? I don’t think she did. This is a major flaw, a flaw that is eating away at my self-control.

Second by second, I feel myself falter.

I feel myself give in.

And before I can tell him to fuck off, I scoot a few inches back.

And then a few more…

And a few more until his arm wraps around me and tugs me into his chest.

I can feel myself holding my breath as he snuggles in close, as his head goes to my hair, as his hand clamps around my middle, bunching the shirt up.

“Relax,” he says. “Stop thinking.”

“You realize that you’re the reason why I’m thinking so much. You’re the reason why I’m second-guessing all of this. You are the reason why I’m a neurotic mess.”

“I know.” He turns me on my back, and I’m forced to look up at him again. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I don’t know how to handle this. And I’m sorry I’ve made a difficult situation even more difficult. I don’t want you to feel like—as you put it—a neurotic mess.”

He’s so close, so sincere, that once again, he pulls me back in.

I know I should give him hell.

I know I should tear myself away, but for the life of me, I can’t.

Instead, I quietly nod and say, “Thank you for apologizing.”

“Thank you for taking care of me today.”

Needing to break the seriousness of this moment, I say, “Just doing my wifely duties.”

“It was appreciated.”

“Should be, given how you were on the airplane.”

He shrugs and then lightens the mood as well. “I didn’t like that Devin fuck.”

The levity in the moment makes me chuckle as his hand presses against my stomach. This is what I’ve wanted. Hudson talking, chuckling, joking. Him being comfortable, it’s all I’ve been hoping for when he calls me wife, when he says he’s taking this marriage seriously. I’ve wanted this appreciation. “You didn’t like him because he’s the one man who has ever truly pleasured me.”

“And as your husband, I don’t appreciate that.”

“Because as my husband, you have yet to pleasure me.”

His expression falls flat, which makes me laugh even harder. “Not fucking funny.”

I press my hand to his cheek, staring into his sultry eyes. “I agree. It’s a real problem. We might need you to see a doctor.”

“Yeah, to make sure my blue balls aren’t about to fall off.”

Oh.

My.

God.

I press my hand to my chest. “Hudson Hopper, was that a joke?”

“I do know how to make them.”

And when he does, I feel a huge weight being lifted off my shoulders. I see sun peeking through the dark clouds because this is the side of him I’ve always wanted, I’ve always craved.

“Really? Because the only other time I’ve seen you lighten up was when you were at Haisley and Jude’s wedding.”

“That’s because the rest of the time you’ve seen me has been in the office, and I don’t fuck around in the office.”

“That much is obvious,” I reply. “You know, you could lighten up after hours, though.”

“You’re still part of the business,” he admits.

“Not as your wife.”

I can see his mind working on that one, like he wants to tell me differently. He could look at this two ways: he can feed into this not-so-realistic situation where we marry for convenience but sink into the roles, or he can play this off as just another business transaction.

Given how he’s been, I have a good guess on how he’s going to react.

“Being my wife is business,” he replies, not surprising me in the least.

“Is that what you truly think?” I ask, pressing for him to think about it a little bit more. “Do you truly see me as a business transaction, or do you see more?”

He wets his lips as he shifts, his hand slightly moving over my stomach. “I don’t think I can answer that. I don’t think it’s safe to.”

A small smile tugs on my lips, because I’m starting to read him so well now. “Your avoidance of the question is all the answer I need.” I lift up and kiss the tip of his nose. “Night, Husband.”