The Charmer (Harbor City 2)

She crossed her arms and rubbed her palms up and down her arms. “It’s kinda cold.”

“It’s in the high fifties. Come on.” He shrugged out of his thicker coat and draped it over her shoulders. “Try something new.”

She narrowed her eyes in a glare, the rush of color in her cheeks a telltale sign that she was gearing up to give him a what for. “I’ve walked home before.”

“Yeah, but never with me, Matches.”

Not giving her time to formulate any objections, he started off in the direction she’d pointed. He made it three steps before she caught up. For once in his life, he kept his mouth shut about winning that little argument and just enjoyed one of life’s small victories.

The walk back to Felicia’s house took less time than Hudson had expected for fifteen long city blocks. Maybe it was because when Felicia wasn’t telling him—verbally or with a look—to go fuck straight off, she was actually kind of fun, pointing out her neighborhood’s little oddities. Maybe it was because he couldn’t stop noticing the way the streetlights brought out the dark auburn highlights in her hair, or the way she couldn’t seem to talk without using her hands. Maybe it was because even though she was a solid foot shorter than him, she actually walked faster than he did—definitely a woman on a mission.

“What’s the rush?” he asked ten blocks in.

“My cat is going to be nuts by the time I get home.” Her pace increased as they hustled across the street to beat the light. “Honeypot is kind of an asshole.”

“First, aren’t all cats assholes? And second, you named your cat Honeypot? Obsess much?”

Her chin went up, and she hooked a right on Elmhurst.

“Cats are regal creatures. Well, most of them are.”

“Not Honeypot?”

“No.” Caught by the no-crossing light at the corner, she nudged him with her elbow then pointed at the building they were next to. A plaque set in the concrete declared that David Carlyle had laid the cornerstone in 1970. “One of yours?”

His gut tightened as he stared at the reminder of his family legacy. “My grandfather.”

The light changed, and they strode across the street.

“What’s that like, knowing your family built Harbor City?”

Part of him wished it was an exaggeration, but it wasn’t. Carlyle buildings dotted the skyline of this city and dozens of others across the globe. Hotels, office buildings, skyscrapers, and more all bearing the Carlyle name. Carlyle Enterprises had been one of the most prominent international building companies for decades, and he had an office in the company’s Harbor City headquarters that he visited once a quarter whether he wanted to or not.

Hudson reached for the breezy charm he usually employed as cover, but couldn’t do it. Something about the honest and curious look Felicia had on her face made it impossible. “It’s amazing and awful all at the same time.”

“How so?” she asked.

“There are unending bottles of champagne, pretty girls everywhere I turn, more money than I could spend in five lifetimes, and certain…expectations.” Yeah, that was one way to put being assigned a job as suit-wearing, spreadsheet-loving businessman from birth when all he’d ever wanted to do was paint—not that what he wanted actually mattered.

“Like what?” She stopped in front of the black iron railing for a short flight of stairs that led down to a basement apartment, her piercing gaze trained on him like she was determined to classify and catalog him.

“Oh no, don’t look at me like that. I’m not one of your ants to study.”

She opened her mouth—no doubt to argue—but a horrible, blaring yowl burst from the window of the basement apartment at the bottom of the steps. It was the kind of ear-splitting screech that bored straight into a person’s eardrum before stopping as suddenly as it started.

Felicia sighed. “And this is me.”

He took in the eight steps leading down, past the window with decorative bars over it, to a red door, but movement in the window dragged his attention back. Sitting on the other side of the glass was a one-eyed orange tabby cat with a good chunk missing from one ear. It looked like one of the animals they showed in the animal rescue commercials to get people to donate—but more feral.

“That’s Honeypot?”

“Yeah, and he’s an escape artist, so I’d better say good-bye now.” She took off his coat and held it out to him. “Thanks for the burger and shake.”

Ignoring the coat, he pulled his phone from his front pocket. “Let me have your phone real quick.”

“Why?” She eyeballed him suspiciously.

“So I can call myself from it, and then we’ll have each other’s numbers.”