Everly After Page 2

  I don’t want to think of how he used his shirt to clean up my scraped knee. Or how I gave up my name too easily as he stood between my thighs. His touch was unexpected, more a natural reflex for him than a cry for help from me. It’s mixed me up.

  I remember the way his eyes pinned my body against the backdrop of Paris as if I were some rare butterfly in an exhibit box. I remember the way my heart jumped when he didn’t look away after I caught him staring. All morning I’ve caught myself closing my eyes and inhaling, pretending to smell him again—lemon and cloves. Like a hot cup of tea.

  I remember Beckett, even if I don’t want to—and I hate him a little bit. I’ve never had someone walk away from me before. No one leaves an heiress on the sidewalk in the middle of the night without shoes.

  I flag down the waitress for another cappuccino, greedily sipping it once it arrives. I should be getting back to my apartment. I’m sure it’s a disaster. Or maybe the party is still going and I can spend the rest of the afternoon losing myself again. Except the yawn burning at the back of my throat reminds me I’m here in Paris for a reason. I’m here to put myself back together, to figure out what to do with my life now that I’ve graduated college. I thought it’d be easy to do in Manhattan, but things happen. Life happens, and my mistakes are just holding me back. I’m better off here, where I can start fresh and move forward.

  I believe the lie, too. For a few minutes at least. I close my eyes and dream of another life, another girl. I see myself smiling, the sun fiery against my tanned skin, my hair twisting into golden spirals in the summer breeze. I don’t know where I am in this dream, but I seem happy. I want to be there. I want to be her.

  Then lips cover mine, warm and soft, tasting of salty caramel. My body tenses as a tongue licks the seam of my mouth, parting my lips and stroking my tongue without hesitation. I know these lips, this mouth.

  I part my eyes slowly, watching the man kissing me, careful not to break our connection. I give in for a few minutes and chase his lips with mine, losing myself in our kiss because it feels good. He bites down on my bottom lip, hard, and then his eyes flash open.

  He doesn’t let go, which is familiar too. It’s selfish. His teeth drag over my swollen lips as I pull away. I don’t miss the brown eyes in front of me, but sometimes I miss the kisses.

  “Is that how you say hello to every girl sitting at a café?” I slump back against my chair and sip my cappuccino, washing away the taste of him.

  I don’t want to see Hudson. I don’t want him here with me in Paris. I don’t want him staring at me as if he knows something I don’t.

  “Only you.” That wicked grin spreads across his stupidly handsome face. “Hello, Ev.”

  I clamp my eyes shut, a dry laugh escaping my throat. He always was the charmer.

  Hudson leans forward, his dark hair falling across his forehead. He tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear as my eyes pop open and meet his cocky smile. It’s a stolen touch, one that I didn’t invite but he thinks he’s welcome to. His eyes focus on my lips. I know he wants to kiss me again, but he pauses.

  That’s not like Hudson.

  I’m thrown off, searching for words. I really should get some sleep soon—my eyes are burning. “I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”

  He crowds closer, his hands bracing on the table either side of me. His lips brush against the curve of my ear as he whispers, “Who else would you be kissing?”

  If I give in to him, I’ll lose everything, so I’ve built up a wall between his advances and my heart. It’s withstood a lot over the years. We’ve practically been engaged since we were five. Our parents want our wedding more than anything, and I want anyone other than Hudson. It’s our constant battle.

  My fingers rest on his chest, the fine poplin of his suit shirt soft to the touch. “Depends on the day, really.” His heart is racing. I search his eyes to see what he wants, but they’re only deep pools of chocolate-brown.

  This is surprising, too. I’ve always been good at reading them until now.

  Hudson eases back into the opposite chair, studying me. “I don’t believe you.”

  I shrug, taking a deep drag of my cigarette, grounding myself in this moment, this chair, as Paris blurs by me. I blow out a curling cloud of smoke, happy that, for a second, I can’t make out his face. I liked today better when I was staring into my empty cup. Alone.

  “You’re smoking again?”

  I nod, hating that he says “again” as if he knows me. I guess he thinks he does. Hudson grabs it and inhales, waiting for my shock, but it never comes. Nothing about him shocks me anymore.

  He takes a few more drags, then drops it onto the concrete patio and grinds it out with his John Lobb. “I heard you had a party last night,” he says. I don’t set down my cappuccino. It might come in handy if I need something to throw at his face. “And you didn’t call me?”

  “I didn’t know you were in Paris.”

  I hate the way he’s taking over the bistro chair as though this is his café, like I’m his…whatever. He’s not usually so well-behaved. He’s a fucked-up mess on the best of days. I’m waiting for that Hudson because I know he’s coming. He’s never far behind from the lie I’m faced with now.

  “I’m staying around the corner.”

  Whenever he’s in Paris, he likes to stay at the same upscale hotel. At least this I expect and know.

  I roll my eyes and slump back into my chair. He doesn’t even try to be charming. I expect him to come right out with it next: Fuck me, Everly. He wouldn’t be polite enough to make it sound like an invitation.

  “I’m not going back with you.”

  Even without knowing Hudson was in the city, I’m not sure why I’d come here of all the cafés in Paris. If I really cared about getting on with things, I wouldn’t visit places where Hudson likes to prowl. Last night, though… It’s Beckett’s fault. After he left me, I found some shoes and grabbed my clutch, walking the city until it was light out. And now here I am at Café George V. But I don’t belong on Avenue des Champs-Élysées anymore, not when I’m waiting tables in Montmartre. I’m dead-broke, an heiress with a moral compass and no more trust fund.

  “Of course not.” His smile widens like he’s uncovered my dirty secret. “Do you want a ride back to your place?”

  I take a sip of my cappuccino only to be met with another empty cup. Damn him. “No.” The cup rattles as I slam it down onto the saucer and frown.

  He laughs to himself, suddenly taken with the passing traffic crawling toward the Arc de Triomphe. He scrubs his face, his stupid, handsome face that I don’t find at all attractive.

  Well, a little bit.

  “Julia’s been asking about you.”

  Panic constricts my throat. I don’t want to talk about her, don’t want to see her. I don’t want to remember last spring; my scars are enough. I push up from the table and block out his voice, focusing instead on finding some euros in my clutch so I can pay my bill and get away. I dig around until I grab a few and throw them next to my empty cup. His hand covers mine and pins me to the table. I try to wrestle away, but his free hand knocks under my chin, drawing my eyes up to meet his. I glare back.

  “Fine, you win. We won’t talk about her, Ev.”

  I jab my chin out and square my shoulders, but it’s hard to ignore the icy lump that’s lodged itself in my stomach.

  “Let me give you a ride to wherever you’re staying. My driver is around the corner.”

  I scrunch my nose, exhausted. I’m too tired for our game. His grip loosens, and I jerk my hand out from under his, nodding weakly. Maybe he understands. Maybe he’s not going to be a complete asshole.

  We ride back to my apartment in silence. Hudson spends it glued to his phone, and I make sure to sit as far away as possible. I feel his eyes rake over me a few times, and I hear the way he shifts over the leather seat as if he’s preparing to pounce. And I’m waiting. I’m not holding my breath for Hudson to transform miraculously into someone kinder, s
omeone who would listen. It’s nice to be hopeful about things. I’m trying—I am. But I stood on a ledge last night with the intention of flying off until a stranger interrupted. Being lonely and lost, trapped in the lights of Paris, can do funny things to a girl who’s spent too much of her life balancing on that high ledge. Finding the quiet after that fall, the darkness, promises me peace.

  I curl a strand of hair around my finger and glance over to Hudson again. There’s something to be said for the familiar. My heart races with anticipation because the man who kissed me is a brief glimpse of the one I’ve run from. He looks respectable in his suit, cleanly shaven, and his eyes are clear. But his smile, while tempting, is missing the curve that reveals the real Hudson.

  A thrill chases down my spine. I’m playing with fire, leading him back where we aren’t being watched by others. We’re not exactly known for our self-control. Page Six is an excellent testament to that.

  I’m out the door before the limo comes to a complete stop.

  My apartment building is anything but glamorous. It doesn’t romanticize the city like you see in magazines or the movies. The building’s rusty gate stops that grandiose expectation immediately. There are bars over the windows of the ground-floor units. The sprays of dead grass between the cracked cobblestones in the courtyard are the only signs of life this early in the day. I shield my eyes from the stream of sun as I gaze up, my eyes combing over the tall building to my apartment window at the very top.

  Hudson chases after me, but I ignore his silent questions and push through the large oak door.

  Dim light floods into the stairwell from the dirty skylights above. The walls are yellowed from age, the plaster cracked and split into thousands of designs, like the stained glass at Sainte-Chapelle. The marble stairs are bowed down the middle from years of use. The cage elevator in front of me won’t open without a coin to pry apart the old lock, so we walk up seven flights to my place.

  I fumble for my keys, his breath hot on my neck. He smells like cardamom and mint.

  “I’ll find them. They’re in my pur—”

  “Why are you in Paris?”

  I pause when he presses his lips against my neck. If I had an answer, it would fall out between us now, but since I don’t, I remain silent. He licks a line up my neck, stopping just behind my ear.

  I let out a rushed exhale, biting my lip as my hand finally curls around my keys. His teeth tug at my earlobe.

  “Found them.” I jingle the keys to hide my trembling hand. “I haven’t cleaned,” I add as an afterthought.

  “There are people who will do that for you.”

  For us, that’s true. We never had to do anything we didn’t want to. There were people to cook and clean and raise us. But I don’t want that to be my truth anymore. I want to live for myself. I want to know that, if the world falls away, I can stand on my own.

  I glance over my shoulder, deciding it best to ignore his comment. I’m not sure why I bothered with the keys; my door was never locked. A few strangers are still passed out around my place. I step inside, thankful for the cool air that doesn’t smell like Hudson. Thankful for the small space separating us now.

  I don’t look back. I don’t want to see his face as he takes in what I’ve run away to or the carnage from last night. So I stand by the kitchen island, shoving the trash on the counter off onto the floor to make room for my purse.

  He pulls in a deep breath, then slowly releases it. “Where’s all your stuff, Ev?”

  An empty handle of vodka rolls at my feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a disco ball tucked away in the kitchen corner by the overflowing trash can. I pick it up, hugging it in my arms while Hudson nudges some guy on the floor with his shoe.

  “This looks like it was fun.” His lips curl up. “Why didn’t I get an invite?”

  I spin the disco ball over the counter, but the light isn’t right in the apartment this time of day, so I have a mirrored ball in my hands that refuses to refract light. It breaks my frown into tiny pieces and reflects it back to me instead.

  “Can you get rid of these people?” I ask.

  “Who are they?”

  I shrug. “Just get rid of them.”

  He grumbles, but after twenty minutes, my apartment is cleared of hungover strangers.

  I take out my phone—a mindless distraction. No one has this number. I’ve switched emails. I’m not on social media anymore. It’s been nice to be unplugged from things, but I need something to do so I pretend it’s the most interesting phone in the world.

  “You had a party with a bunch of strangers and then left? They could have taken your stuff.”

  “What stuff?” I wave my arms around at the trash and tipped furniture I’ve picked from the dumpster. I have nothing but a Louis Vuitton suitcase, and I stashed that under my bed. The important things are with me in my clutch.

  Hudson grabs the phone out of my hands, then I hear an answering text from his suit pocket, and I realize my quiet is over. As if I needed his number stored in my contacts to remind me. His kiss was enough.

  I’m waiting for him to judge me or cut me down. Or kiss me again. Instead, he surprises me by asking if I want to stay with him, as if I’m some sad charity case who’s destitute. As if my shitty apartment isn’t good enough.

  I take back my phone and toss it onto the counter. Staying with Hudson would be a terrible idea.

  “If you need money…”

  I cross my arms, squaring off across from him. Hudson towers over me. He’s tall and lean, his body powerful from years of soccer. “I don’t need anyone’s money.”

  Hudson pries my arms down and hauls me close. His lips trail down my throat, sucking at the spot between my neck and shoulder until I throw back my head, giving in to how he makes me feel…something.

  I hate him, even if he always makes me feel good. And I hate him a little more because of that, too.

  “I want to hear you say it.” His voice rumbles over me, shaking me awake.

  I slide my hand up his chest, over his tailored gray suit, tracing his tanned neck and cleanly shaved jaw. My fingers cover his lips, still wet from kissing me. “I’m fine.”

  This is our game, after all—always pushing each other closer toward that reckless mistake that will destroy us both.

  “I’ll get some wine,” I say.

  He stays glued to that spot, studying me, as I sway back into the small kitchen. I feel like prey under that hardened stare of his.

  No, his attack on me was that kiss. My body warms as it plays over in my head. He didn’t ask because he’s Hudson Wilkes. He never has to ask for anything. And when it comes to me, he knows I don’t care.

  I suck in a deep breath, steadying the tremble in my hand before I pour the wine. I stare at the glass, filling it until wine almost overflows over the brim. After a hungry swallow, I pour half a glass for Hudson.

  “What are these maps here for, Ev?” Disappointment hangs heavy in his question. I don’t answer. “Where are you going?” He shuffles through the pile of paper continents covering the small coffee table. My paper continents, my escape.

  Far from you.

  I walk around the tattered couch and hand him a glass of wine. “Why are you in town, Hudson?”

  “You’re going to keep avoiding my question.”

  I see the way he looks at me, as if my silence is pulling him apart. The adult that Hudson is pretending to be slowly slips for a second. He loosens his tie.

  I take another sip of wine, licking the beads of Beaujolais nouveau off my lips with a slow sweep of my tongue. I like the way his breath hitches in his throat, the way his brown eyes blacken, if that’s even possible. All because of me.

  He plucks a purple bra wedged between the faded couch cushions and fingers the lacy cup. “Yours?”

  I curl up opposite him and tuck my legs beneath me. There’s a reason why he gets what he wants. It has something to do with that narrowed stare of his that makes your skin catch on fire. Hudson’s wi
ld and untamed, fast to ignite and never quick to forget.

  I lean over and check the tag, knowing he can see down my shirt, then slowly recline and drag the moment out with another drink of wine. “Too small.”

  I’m sure I’ll be finding all sorts of souvenirs when I do cleanup detail later, but a cheap bra from H&M two cups too small? No thanks.

  I bet Hudson has some comment to make bordering on harassment and charm. I don’t give him the opportunity. “I haven’t seen you since my graduation party in December.”

  His eyes scan over my bare legs in a way that feels like a caress, and then he tosses the bra behind us onto the floor. I bite my lip when our eyes eventually meet. It takes a while. Hudson gets distracted when he reaches my chest.

  “It’s only been a few months.” His voice is gravelly. “I’m working at the company for the year. For my father.”

  Of course. His dad heads some hedge fund that manages billions in international capital. The company has offices all over the world. I should have thought of that possibility before I decided to start my adventure with a stop in Paris. Thinking things through has never been a strength of mine.

  “I have a job now, too.”

  He sets his glass down on the coffee table and shifts over the sagging couch cushions to face me. “Ev?”

  A chill hits me as those two letters ring in my ears. I don’t want his questions. “Yes?”

  “Why are you here?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s not what I asked.” He moves closer. “Why. Are. You. Here?”

  “I needed a change.” I laugh off my confession, meeting his stare for a moment before I swallow another large gulp of wine.

  Hudson grabs the glass from my hand and places it on top of paper Africa. I look at the ring it’s going to leave around Kenya and wonder what it would be like to go on a safari. What would it be like to stare down a lion without the fear of its teeth sinking into you and tearing you apart?

  He shakes off his suit jacket and drapes it behind him on the couch’s arm. “You remember everything you have back home, right?” He turns back around. “What you have in Manhattan?”