It’s been five years since that night; five years since I was at my lowest - drunk, confused, and grieving. Five years since I completely embarrassed myself by dragging this man away from the crowds at my father’s wake and attacking him like some sort of hot mess, and five years since he pushed me away from him and suddenly walked out, leaving me utterly mortified and even worse than I was before.
And in five Goddamn years, I haven’t been able to get him out of my head.
Donald is smiling benignly at me as he fawns over the smugly handsome man grinning that cocky smirk at me; “As I was saying, Mr. Banks, as you may know, works for your father’s comp-”
“We’ve met” I say it with an icy tone, trying to look everywhere else in the room but Hudson’s eyes; “And this isn’t happening, Donald.” I shake my head, my jaw set as I grind my teeth together. I’m furious, and of course embarrassed like I was that night all over again, and all I want to do is walk away from this entire horrible exchange right now.
“It is happening, Reagan.” Donald’s voice is firm and he shoots me a warning look; “This is happening or there is no campaign-”
“Then fine, there’s no campaign. It’s been a pleasure working with you, Donald.” I spit out.
“Well, nice to see you haven’t changed at all, Ray.” He says with a chuckle. He’s got that fucking smirk on his face, that cocky grin that I once found unbelievably attractive, and then I feel my face burn red as I realize I still do. He’s even more attractive now than he was back then; healthier, his eyes even sharper, those broad shoulders even stronger looking as they stretch the tuxedo just enough to show off. I’m remembering those shoulders now, and the way my hand felt hot against that hard, chiseled chest; his hands on my skin as I breathed and whimpered into his mouth.
My hand is shaking, and I grip the champagne flute tighter, willing it to stop. I do not get this way over guys, especially a prick who tried to take advantage of my grief; winding me up around his finger before shoving me away, quite literally. Hudson Banks is a fucking head-case; some ex-military jock who somehow found his way into my Father’s good graces and wound up running a whole division of his company. I shake my head again, suddenly realizing I actually would rather there not be a campaign than take my father’s money; especially if it’s coming from Hudson fucking Banks, however stupidly good looking and sexy he looks in that damn tuxedo with those piercing blue eyes the color of a stormy sea.
I’m dimly aware of Donald hissing at me as I shove the champagne flute into his hands and walk away, ignoring the cameras, the stuffy museum trustees, my campaign aides, and especially the hot asshole in the tuxedo, as I march right out through the museum foyer and out the door.
2
Hudson
She storms out of the foyer and through the double glass doors into the museum courtyard, and I’m shaking my head and following her. Of course I’m following; like I’ve been following her for longer than she’s ever known and in spite of how damn bratty she gets. It’s cold out here in the open-air courtyard, and the city lights and sounds are only slightly muffled by the four walls of the museum around us.
She whirls on me with a look of fury on her face, her mouth open ready to spit fire and brimstone and vitriol at me like I know she is, when suddenly she’s slipping on the ice under her heeled feet. I move faster than my brain even knows how to; years of training and reflex just making the body move on its own accord I guess, and I’m catching her before my head even totally registers that she’s falling.
Fuck, she feels amazing in my arms. She’s come out here without a coat on in that classic hot-headed Reagan way, and as my arms go around her, I can feel the heat from her skin against my palms through the low-cut open part at the back of her dress. Her hands clutch at my jacket lapels, one seizing my arm as she gasp and tumbles right into my chest. I close my eyes for the briefest moments, smelling her perfume or shampoo, or whatever voodoo magic she’s using to bring my head completely to a stop as I just hold for a frozen moment in time.
You know, smelling her, like a totally normal person.
“Put me down,” Her voice is high and whispered, but she’s not fighting or struggling against me. I’m still frozen, feeling her hand against my chest and my shoulder like that; her hair in my face and her scent just enslaving me.
“Hudson!” She sounds more insistent this time, and now she’s pushing at my chest; “The last thing I need is some photographer snapping pictures of me canoodling with some hot prick in a tuxedo.”