She made a noncommittal snort and took another bite of the cookie. “Myron says I don’t have to work anymore, either, to cover our bills, and yet here I am.”
“The place wouldn’t be the same without you,” he said, turning on the full wattage of the Carlyle charm.
“Enough pretty talk,” she said, even as she seemed to grow another inch taller. “Give me the update.”
He thought about telling her the version of the plan his mom thought he was following, but in the end, he just couldn’t lie to her—or he needed a confidante. He wasn’t sure which. So he gave her the quick summary of his genius plan to get Tyler to want her so she’d be free to choose a better man for herself—leaving out the part about hoping she’d choose him for however brief a time it took to work her out of his system and onto his canvas—including his deal with Felicia and dinner last night. What happened after dinner—and the fact that it had kept him up most of the night and weekend—he kept to himself.
Mrs. Esposito brushed the cookie crumbs into her hand and dropped them into a nearby trash can before adding their empty glasses to the dirty dish bucket on a rolling cart that one of her kitchen minions would deliver to the dishwasher. Once her dominion was set back to rights, she turned to him, a considering look on her face that had him wondering what in the hell he’d missed or if he’d said more than he’d intended.
“I see. So how does helping this Felicia woman decide she doesn’t want Tyler make things better between him and your brother exactly?” she asked.
“Oh, it doesn’t exactly. But she’s not right for him. Never would be. But there is a woman I think is perfect for him,” If anyone could handle someone like Tyler, it was Everly. “And this might be just the thing to spur her into seeing what’s right in front of her eyes, too. Love makes people do crazy things, right?” It was the reason why wars were fought, painters picked up the brush, and the world turned.
Up went that penciled-in eyebrow. “You know this from personal experience, huh?”
“Not when you keep turning down my marriage proposals,” he said, returning to the teasing tone he always used to deflect in these situations when the real him had started to poke through the Hudson Carlyle facade.
“I’m a married woman,” she said, chuckling. “And even if I wasn’t, you couldn’t handle me.”
“True enough, Mrs. Esposito.” He gave her a wink and grabbed his remaining cookie. “Now off I go up to Sawyer’s office to see how making plans to use those tickets has greased the wheels of progress.”
“Do you need directions?” she teased. “I could draw a map.”
“You’re killing me, Mrs. Esposito.” He laughed as he walked away. “Thanks for the cookies.”
; He snarfed down the second cookie in the elevator on the way up to Sawyer’s office on the sixty-third floor, appeasing the dread monster shredding his stomach with every floor number that lit up showing his rise. God, he hated this building. No. It wasn’t the building, it was the expectations that came with it. Sawyer had been playing with blocks and crayon spreadsheets from birth. Hudson had ignored the blocks and used the crayons to color the walls. All his life, he’d known two things with absolute certainty. One, his family loved him. Two, there was no career path for him except one that led to Carlyle Tower. Oh, he’d fought against it, but the last name Carlyle came at a price—one that eventually led to him lying to the very people who deserved the truth. So that’s how he’d ended up with an office on the same floor as Sawyer that he visited once a quarter. He spent his time between trips to his secret painting studio at the cabin wining and dining clients—more often entertaining the spouses so Sawyer could negotiate the business end of things—and counting down the hours until he could get a paintbrush back in his hands.
The elevator doors opened and he stuffed that thought to the back and let his shoulders relax as he sauntered out. Sawyer’s executive assistant, Amara Grant, sat behind her desk.
“Afternoon, Hudson,” she said, her fingers not missing a beat as they flew across the keyboard.
If multitasking was an Olympic sport, Amara would be the world record holding gold medalist.
“Hey there,” he said, walking out into the open space that served as Amara’s kingdom. “How are the kids?”
“Jaden just made varsity basketball and all-county honor roll,” she said, continuing to clack away on the keyboard. “Kai brought home a Tae Kwon Do championship trophy and decided she’ll be the youngest African American woman elected president.”
“So, they’re slacking off as usual.”
She laughed. “You here for your brother? He’s in with Clover, and the door’s unlocked so it should be safe.”
He groaned, definitely not wanting his brain to go there. “I do not need that mental image.”
Amara’s fingers stopped, and she looked up at him with an evil grin. “Why do you think I told you?”
Her chuckle and the clicking of the keys followed him through the big double doors behind Amara’s desk and into Sawyer’s office. His brother and Clover were seated next to each other at the conference table with spreadsheets and piles of research and estimates spread out around them.
“Making another pitch for total world domination?” he asked.
Clover looked up over her shoulder, a smile on her face. “Why think small? Try total universe domination.”
“All we need is for you to dazzle a few aliens,” Sawyer said.
“Consider it done.” He pulled out the Giants tickets from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I brought these for you and Tyler.”
His brother’s face lit up, and he accepted the tickets as if they were mini Rembrandts. “How did you manage to get these?” he asked. “I couldn’t get ahold of them no matter how much I offered.”