Page 54 of Hate You Later
“Actually, no.” Kenna sets down the fries and looks at Xander. “You didn’t tell her about the big news yet?”
“I was just getting to it.” Xander finishes reorganizing the stacks of jelly in the condiment holder. They are now perfectly sorted into single flavor stacks of equal height. The extra jellies are set aside. The uncles used to pay him in milkshakes to perform this chore, and he’s never stopped doing it.
Xander drums dramatically on the Formica table. “Are you ready for it? The Holms are creating an event space for us in the warehouse reno.”
He dumps out the plastic cube holding the sugar packets, methodically separating the raw sugar from the stevia.
“They’re super excited about hosting. Might make it an annual thing. Apparently, the idea was Lilly Holm’s suggestion. Can you believe it?”
“Lilly Holm?” I ask incredulously. “What is she, ten?”
“That’s hardly the most interesting part.” Kenna stares meaningfully at me, grabbing a sugar packet from one of Xander’s piles. She rips into it and stirs it slowly into her tea. “Lilly’s OTHER big brother—the one who is NOT BRYCE—is joining us to discuss the plan.”
Kenna winks dramatically at me and turns toward the door, smiling and beckoning to someone.
She stage-whispers, “You’ll never believe who it is, Georgia!”
Xander follows Kenna’s gaze. “Oh good, he’s back. I’ll introduce you and Emily.”
My heart stops. Everything freezes. There’s just me, and him, viewed through the heatwaves rising off the fragrant, steaming fries. I can’t look away. The sounds of clinking cutlery and rattling ice cubes echo in the booths around us. My face feels hot, and although I have an irrational urge to bolt, I also feel like I cannot move a muscle.
Emily taps my arm lightly, and I tear my eyes away to look at her. Everyone else is watching him get closer. She is the only one looking at me.
“Do you know him?” she mouths. I nod tightly, almost imperceptibly. My toes are tapping. My fists are clenched. My upper lip wants to curl into a snarl. Even my nostrils feel twitchy. They want to flare.
Fighting to stay calm, I funnel my focus into breath work. How does that work again? Breathe in for five, hold for five …
I draw in a long, slow breath, counting, and immediately lose track. Instead, I opt to simply hold my breath.
“Sorry, guys. I didn’t mean to be rude, but I had to take that call,” I hear the man say. “I’m Hudson, Hudson Holm.”
“This is Emily,” Xander says. Hudson reaches across me to shake Emily’s hand. He turns toward me, smiling cannily. “You’re Georgia, right? We met at your shop.”
Unable to hold my breath any longer, I exhale it in an awkward swoosh. So much for breath work.
It’s him, alrighty. Hudson Holm. And he’s sliding into the booth beside me. Right next to me. Up close and personal. His leg is brushing against mine. And I can smell him again. What is that scent? I hate him for smelling so good. I want to lean in closer to sample it more properly. I want to get the hell away from it.
“Sorry,” he says, looking down to where our legs are touching. “I have a hard time fitting in booths.”
“Please,” Kenna says. “You should see some of the manspreaders who come in here. I swear I’ve seen guys half your size take up three-quarters of this booth.”
I inch toward Xander, who doesn’t hesitate before shoving me right back toward Hudson. As payback, but also as a distraction, I snag the freshly organized jelly sorter, dumping it out, mixing everything up, and then restacking them in deliberately mismatched stacks.
Xander twitches, glaring at my handiwork.
“So, Georgia, as I was saying, Hudson here has not only offered up the event space at their newly renovated warehouse, but he’s also joining our planning committee.”
Hudson swipes an orange marmalade before I can place it on the mixed-up stack of grape and strawberry and hands it back to Xander, who is currently trying to sequester the orange ones from me.
I tilt my head up to scowl at Hudson. He stares back unflinchingly, blue eyes glinting with amber sparks of … something. He almost looks amused. Like he’s double-dog daring me to do something, say something.
But in the next instant, he surprises me, reaching out and taking my bandaged right hand.
“What’s the story here? What happened to your hand?” he asks. He gently turns my right hand over, trailing a finger across my palm from my bandage-wrapped middle finger, down to my wrist. He studies my wrist, placing his large thumb over the soft flesh, like he’s taking my pulse. Which is approximately one hundred billion bpm.
My skin buzzes beneath his touch, and I feel the booth rock as if it’s a boat that’s just been pushed away from the dock. I could swear the booth is swaying. I almost have to fight the urge to hold on to him, like he’s the only solid thing.
What the hell is happening here?
