Page 36 of Abyss

Hudson doesn’t offer me a visual acknowledgement, speaking to his phone screen. “I made appointments at two apartment complexes near the hospital. We can walk through a couple of units and you can—”

A gasp falls from my lips, my jaw dropping. “You made appointments?When?”

He doesn’t answer, leaving me to my assumptions.

He made appointments, did research, and looked up where I’d be working?

Why?

Our car stops in front of a well-maintained and manicured apartment complex with an exterior displaying a symmetrical arrangement of light blue-painted balconies and windows. The driver pulls open my door, and I join Hudson as we enter a welcoming entrance gate.

Inside, Hudson speaks to one of the managers while I look at the rental pricing displayed on the boards, along with the various apartment layouts.

I take quick steps toward Hudson while the manager goes back into her office to pick up her keys. “Hudson,” I whisper. “I . . . I can’t afford any of these. I’d be spending most of my salary on rent.”

I don’t mention that my brother will also need a car next year, and that I plan to give him mine once it’s fixed and buy myself another used one. All that to say, I won’t be able to afford a place with a ‘state-of-the-art fitness center’ and ‘high-end kitchen appliances’.

He gives me a long look so I snap my mouth shut for a moment. But then I decide I need to get my thoughts out before the manager comes back. “I don’t know what you think art therapists make, but it’s definitely not the exorbitant salary you’re paying me.” I continue, despite him looking at his watch like he’s bored with my diatribe, “Plus, I’m not a fancy-pants like you. I’m perfectly happy with something more . . . dumpy.”

“Fancy-pants.” He deadpans.

“Yes.” Making my point, I jab at his sparkling watch, his cufflinks, and then his tie clip—all items that cost well over my summer salary. “Fancy-pants,” I repeat.

He rolls his eyes before following the manager, volleying, “You’re not staying at a dump,” at me with another disapproving look.

Heels tapping the tiles quickly, I reluctantly follow them both. Just because I look at a place, doesn’t mean I have to sign any agreement today.

Fine, I’ll look.

After asking the manager about the distance to the hospital, I walk through the one-bedroom unit. The views are pretty from the windows in the master bedroom, displaying part of the Burnside Bridge spanning the Willamette River.

While I’m admiring the beautifully finished bathroom with its free-standing tub, I hear Hudson ask the manager about the security around the complex and whether the apartment staff stayed on premises in case of emergency.

The corners of my lips lift, listening to the baritone of his voice, the concern in his words, masked with confidence and assuredness.

Does Hudson Caseactuallycare for my well-being? Well, paint me purple and call me a grape, maybe that alcohol is still in his system!

An hour and a walk-through of another complex later, we’re back inside our car, headed to the airport with Hudson looking at his phone sourly.

After seeing my reaction at the very first apartment, he insisted I pay the deposit and secure the place, but I told him I needed to think about it.

There was no question the apartment was everything I’d be happy in, plus it was a five-minute drive to the hospital, but I really didn’t want to stretch myself thin when I still had Mom and Neil to think about. The entire reason I’d taken this job so far away from them was because it paid well enough that I could send some money back home with each paycheck. I couldn’t splurge it all on high-vaulted ceilings and panoramic views.

“Mr. Case.”

Hudson’s eyes focus on me with an unimpressed look that has my lips twitching. “I thought I told you to call me by my first name.”

I shift in my seat, pulling my seat belt along with me as I turn to him. “It doesn’t seem proper given you keep calling me Ms. Jain.”

“And what would you have me call you?” His question lingers in the space between us, and I know just as well as he does that we're both thinking about last night.

“Kav,” I answer, my voice more a whisper than I’d intended. “Call me Kav. I-I liked it.”

His Adam’s apple bobs with a swallow, his thick brownlashes flutter over his eyes as I watch his hand loosen over his phone. “Okay.”

Despite wanting to look away from his heated stare, I keep my eyes on him. “Do you . . .” Now that I’ve started, I almost want to change the direction of my question, but the nagging feeling inside me, insisting I ask, pulls the words from my lips. “Do you remember much of last night?”

Please say no.

---