Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Whitney

Hudson rapped his knuckles against the massive wood-and-wrought-iron door at Beck's large house, the sound echoing through the quiet, upscale neighborhood. Claws scrambled on a hardwood floor on the other side, followed by the enthusiastic yipping of a dog.

"Shush, Puck," a woman's voice called from inside. The door opened to reveal Hope standing in the doorway, grappling with an excited, squirming terrier mutt in her arms. A grin split the pup's face, matching Hope's bright smile. He licked her face. "Ew." She chuckled, and we joined in. She gently placed him on the floor. "Puck, go find Beck." The dog scrabbled on the wood like a cartoon coyote running in place, found purchase, and darted off. Grinning, Hope shook her head.

She stepped back, allowing us entry. "Welcome! Come in, come in! Everyone is here."

My stomach danced with nerves as we walked through the front of the house to Beck's great room. The group of friends attending Hope's book club was small but held the weight of personal significance. If I were honest with myself, I wanted the women—and men—to like me.

An L-shaped sectional faced a fireplace, and extra chairs sat along the hearth. Emily, Avery, and Brynn greeted me, raising glasses of wine.

Beck lounged at one end of the sectional, long legs stretched out in front of him, with Puck curled at his feet. Lifting his gaze from his phone, he waved it in the air. "Good stuff, Whitney. I'm trying to catch up with Bluestocking ."

"Thank you." Pride swelled like a balloon in my chest. "Congrats to you on your goal and assist last night." The Blazers had defeated Las Vegas to stay alive in the playoffs. The series stood at three to two in favor of Vegas.

Beck nodded and greeted Hudson with an affectionate "Asshole."

Hudson clapped Beck's shoulder fondly and responded, "Dickhead."

Hope shook her head. "What can I get you to drink? Wine? Beer? Water?"

We requested beer and water, and Hudson and I settled on the couch, perpendicular to each other in the corner of the L , our knees touching. When Hope returned with our drinks, I cracked open the water bottle with trembling hands. I gulped the cold liquid, my throat already parched from nerves. Speaking with my friends in a small group was more nerve-wracking than appearing before the public at the book signing. This group was intimate and personal.

Hudson dug into the charcuterie board on the coffee table as if he hadn't eaten a heavy meal of lasagna an hour previously. I'd been too worried to eat more than a few bites.

Hope sat between Hudson and Beck. She plucked Beck's phone from his hand.

"Hey! I was in the middle of the ballroom scene where Daphne—" He grabbed for his phone .

Hope playfully held it out of reach. "You'll have to finish it later. It's time to talk." She placed the phone on the side of the coffee table opposite Beck. Her eyes alight, she turned to me. "Whitney, tell us some behind-the-scenes stories about writing the book."

Emily snagged an olive from the board. "Let's cut to the chase, pun intended. What we really want to know is: Was Hudson the inspiration for the sex scenes?" She nonchalantly popped the olive into her mouth.

Hudson choked on a mouthful of beer, coughing and wheezing. Beck hooted a belly laugh, and Hope gasped, "Emily!" Avery hid her face behind her hands, and Brynn grinned and raised her wineglass in salute to Emily.

Heat crept up my cheeks, and sweat broke out on the small of my back. My mouth opened, but nothing came out. I peeked at Hudson and caught his eye. Mischief danced in his gaze. I could still feel our afternoon and night of experimenting with different positions in the delicious soreness of my body. "I…we…Hudson…"

He held my gaze, and I couldn't look away. "What Whitney is trying to say is that her books are about more than just sex. They're well-researched and evoke the Regency time period. Her characters are complex and exhibit emotional depth and development, and the plots are engaging, full of unexpected twists and turns. The sex scenes aren't gratuitous. They're all meaningful expressions of the characters' growing love for each other, culminating in the ultimate love scene."

My mouth dropped open. "Oh, my God," I whispered. "You get it."

He took my hand, threaded his fingers through mine, and squeezed.

"Wow," Hope said, awe in her voice. "That's a supportive husband. "

Beck chuckled. "I think you just summarized what we were going to discuss. We're done here."

Hope playfully slapped his thigh. "Oh, hush. We still haven't heard any behind-the-scenes stories." She faced me, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

The group had put me at ease, and the tension left my shoulders. We held a relaxing—sometimes amusing—discussion about my research into intellectual bluestockings, the daily life of a writer, my favorite thesaurus, and my plans for the series. Hudson revealed that I spoke dialogue aloud while writing it.

I sat back against the cushions, sipped my water, and enjoyed the lively conversation.

"But you know." Emily crossed her arms. "A marriage of convenience like in Bluestocking is purely historical romance fiction. It would never work in real life these days."

I choked on my water and nearly sprayed a mouthful. Hudson patted my back as I gasped for air.

Emily frowned. "You okay?"

"Fine," I wheezed.

"I mean, think about it," Emily continued. "There would be so many considerations. A loveless marriage." She shuddered.

My heart tripped.

"And what about sex?" Avery asked.

My cheeks heated.

"Not to mention fraud," Brynn added.

"Yeah." Hudson chuckled awkwardly. "Good thing it doesn't happen in real life." He stood abruptly and held out a hand. "Ready to go?"

Hope cocked her head. "So soon?"

We had to escape before anyone guessed our secret. "It's getting late." Besides, Hudson and Beck had practice in the morning and were flying to Las Vegas that afternoon. They played Game Six in two days. I took Hudson's hand and stood.

I would miss Hudson while he was gone, especially after his defense of my writing.

But a thought lingered in the back of my mind. Was his support only that of a fake husband who enjoyed my books?

Or was it something more?

I should tell him how I felt and find out. But just the thought of confessing filled me with panic, and my heart galloped in my chest.

Professing my feelings the last time had ended in disaster.