Off the Record: A Sweet Office Romantic Comedy (The Nashville Romantics Book 1)
Off the Record: Chapter 5

I’ve never been much of a nail-biter, but when six o’clock rolls around and I’m sitting on an email with two finished articles about extremely micro people, I can’t help but chew on my thumbnail. The office is mostly empty, the remaining stragglers packing their things and powering off computers. If I don’t send it now, Hudson might consider it late. If I send it, he might think me crazy and fire me on the spot.

What choice do I have? I hit the send button and immediately start packing my things.

“I have your scarf in my car,” Andrea says, coming up and sitting on the edge of my desk. Why is she still here? She must notice my confusion, because she explains, “From when we went to lunch the other day. Want to walk me out and get it now?”

“Sure, thanks.” I slide my bag over my shoulder and look at Hudson’s office. The blinds are up. He’s still sitting at his desk, the blue light from the computer screen making his face glow. If he’s reading my articles now, I want to be very far from this place.

“It’s kinda sad how much he works, isn’t it?” Andrea asks, following my attention. “His whole situation makes me feel for him.”

“What situation?” I ask, before I can think better of it.

Andrea glances behind us where Simone is watching and doesn’t say anything more.

“Drinks tonight?” Simone asks, pulling her bag over her arm. “Whiskey Sage?”

“Sure. Text me the details.” We can either toast to my skating by or mourn my utter destruction, depending on which way these articles go.

Simone gives Andrea a strained smile. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“Thanks. Maybe I will.” Andrea turns to walk out.

“She has my scarf. I’ll see you later.”

Simone rolls her eyes, and I hurry to follow Andrea. When we reach the elevator, she’s got her phone open, scrolling Instagram. I want her to keep telling me about Hudson, but don’t want to sound too interested. By the time we reach the parking garage, my self-control flees completely. “What were you saying about Mr. Owens?”

She gives me a cat-like smile. “Well, he has no friends.”

“He dates a new girl, like, every week.” Yes, I might have started browsing the photos he’s tagged in on social media when I should be writing. Those pictures go back for ages.

“Right, but he has no friends,” Andrea says.

“How do you know this?”

“I’m the assistant. I have access to his calendar. It’s sadly lacking.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t give us access to that information.”

“His private and work calendars are connected so I can avoid making appointments that conflict with his schedule,” she tells me. “Trust me, the man has no life.”

Which tracks, doesn’t it? How many times this week have we texted late at night or right after work or before we reached the office, bouncing ideas back and forth? I had his attention way more than I should the last few days. It almost feels like we’re becoming friends, but I’m not deluding myself. Our relationship is strictly professional.

“That’s sad,” I say.

“Seriously. I’d invite him to meet us at the bar, but I’m not sure I’m even invited.”

I have nothing to say to this. The weird rivalry between Simone and Andrea is their thing, and I’m staying out of it. We reach her car and she gets my scarf from the front seat.

“I hope I’ll see you tonight,” I say, taking it from her.

“Maybe.” She gives a noncommittal shrug.

“Okay. Well—” My phone rings, cutting me off. I fish it from my pocket. Hudson. “I’ll text you details when I have them,” I say to Andrea.

“Bye, Paisley.” She gets in her car.

I answer the call quickly so I don’t miss it. “Hello?” I say, putting the phone to my ear, pulse thundering.

“Have you left yet?”

Charming. No greeting whatsoever. “I’m about to.”

“Can you stay? Or…have you eaten?”

“I just got off work,” I remind him.

“Sorry. I meant do you have dinner plans?”

“Some of the office people are getting together for drinks, but probably not for a few hours.” I shake my head, thinking of what Andrea said about Hudson’s lack of friends. Despite my better judgment, my heart gives a pang of sympathy. “Would you…uh…like to join us?”

Hudson is silent for a moment, the time stretching out. I’m grateful his immediate words aren’t trying to fire me, but this possible dinner invitation is questionable. His reputation makes me think he doesn’t have great motives, and it is Friday night. Then again, it could be an invitation for nothing more than brainstorming. I see Simone across the way getting into her car and raise my hand to wave.

“I’m not sure,” he finally says. “Can you come back up here? I’ll order some food.”

I reach my car and toss my scarf on the passenger seat. When I glance at the other end of the parking lot, Leo and Kyla are walking away from the elevator, holding hands. I look away, considering. “Is this a work meeting?”

“Are you enquiring if you’ll be paid overtime?”

“No, that’s not—” Ugh. I just want to keep my job. “Sure. I’ll be up in a minute.”

“Great. See you soon.”

“Okay.” I hang up and stand there, staring at my phone. He hadn’t said what he’d thought of my articles. What did I just agree to? More workshopping ideas that won’t come to fruition? I’m tired, I want a break from writing, and I don’t really want to try and think of more concepts tonight.

But I also want to keep my job. I close the car door, lock it, and head back inside.

The office is empty when I reach our floor. The windows darken as the sun sets, streaking pink and orange across the sky. I replace Hudson in the conference room with his laptop open and a phone to his ear.

“Yes, two people,” he says into the phone while waving me in. “Allergies?” he asks me.

“None.”

“No allergies,” he repeats into the phone. “If you can throw in the—yes, I loved it last time. Add it to the menu full time and you have a customer for life.” Hudson laughs at whatever the other person says, and it’s the first time I’ve heard that sound. It’s rich, deep, and smooth like a molten lava cake. I want to hear it again.

Great, so I’m developing a crush on my boss. No biggie.

I take the seat across from him and pull out my computer, setting it up like we’re about to begin a meeting. Except it’s Friday afternoon in Nashville and the sun is leaving, making the office look dim. The lights are off in some of the rooms, and we feel eerily alone.

Hudson hangs up the phone, then does that thing where he looks at me and my ears start to ring with awareness. “I read the articles.”

“And you’re trying to gently replace a way to fire me?” I joke.

“They’re brilliant, Paisley.”

Warmth blooms in my chest. His voice is so earnest, I could jump across the table and kiss him. The whole point of this is keeping my job, so I refrain. “Brilliant? They’re about a barten⁠—”

“A bartender and a fast food attendant, yes,” he says, nodding. “They’re so real and spirited. They have your voice.”

That warmth is now bubbling up, overflowing.

“I couldn’t identify it earlier, but I pulled up the Carnton article for comparison.” He rises, dragging his computer with him until he reaches the chair beside me and sits down. My Carnton article is open on the screen. “You’ll notice the segments I highlighted weeks ago for standing out are specifically about Maggie, the woman who walked you through the property. I mentioned that at our first meeting, but at the time I didn’t realize it’s not her take on Carnton that’s interesting. It’s just her. It’s so obvious—I should have noticed it before.”

He waits for me to look, but I can’t get over what he said. He only took over the company four days ago. I shift in the chair to face him. “Weeks ago?”

“Um, yeah.” He looks between me and the computer, like he doesn’t understand why I’m confused.

“When you came to the meeting about the columns last month, you had already been researching each of us?”

He leans back, assessing me. “Yes.”

Well, I appreciate his frank honesty. “Did you know at that time you’d be making the decisions about who would stay at the company and who would be cut?”

He stares at me. “I didn’t anticipate Ben removing himself from the equation, so, no, not entirely. I knew I’d be giving my opinions. It was a meeting about the future of the columns, Paisley.”

I nod, leaning back. He’s sitting much closer now. I get a whiff of his cologne, deep and velvety.

“Are you…” He watches me closely, deciding what to say. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem here,” I tell him. And there isn’t. None of this is a secret; it all makes sense. Still, I feel uneasy.

“I told you this already, but making cuts is the worst part of this job. I hate it.”

“Make someone else do it then. Who’s consulting? It can fall on them.” Although, I don’t really want that, do I? For whatever reason, Hudson seems to like my writing. I have a better chance of staying if he’s in charge.

“That’s too impersonal.” He leans back, running a hand over his face. “My uncle’s given me until the end of the month to submit my recommendations, but ultimately the decisions are made by a board, including the consultants. They’re creating a list of reasonable cuts to bring profits up. We’ll compare the lists and go from there.”

“Sounds like a lot.”

“It’s what I’m good at,” he says with a self-deprecating smile.

“Firing people?”

“Managing situations.”

“Then why don’t you take the open editor-in-chief position? You’re clearly good at editing, and the rest of the job is just managing groups of people.”

He goes still, staring at me. It seems like I hit a nerve with the question, but I can’t imagine how.

“Sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have⁠—”

“You’ve done nothing wrong. It’s my uncle. He wouldn’t want me to take a demotion.”

My eyebrows lift. Hudson’s position is up in the executive level, but that couldn’t really be much higher than editor-in-chief of a decent weekly paper, could it? “It’s barely a demotion. If you enjoy it more, wouldn’t that make it worth it anyway?”

He shakes his head. “I need to keep him happy. My mom’s been kind of difficult…anyway, what family doesn’t have drama, right? Just trying to stay out of mine.”

He pulls up my articles again, and I lean closer to see where he’s highlighted parts of it.

Hudson glances at me. “I know this is unconventional, but what are your thoughts on trying out a column about real locals? We have enough music news to fill the Grand Ole Opry ten times over. This will be fresh, interesting.”

“Everyone has a story,” I say, repeating what I’d heard my mom say over and over. “If we sit and listen, we’ll learn something new.”

“Exactly.”

“If you’re turning your recommendations into the board in a few weeks, I don’t have long to prove myself.”

“Two more papers,” he says. “We’ll use the bartender and the chicken lady this week. Get final versions to me by the end of Monday, and I’ll be sure they’re with formatting on time.”

“I can do that.”

The elevator dings and a few moments later a teenager appears, carrying in a brown paper bag that smells like garlic and heaven.

“Utensils in the bag?” Hudson asks, taking the food and handing him cash.

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Ralph.”

The kid pockets the money and heads out. Hudson moves away from the computers and pulls black containers of food from the bag. Pasta topped with sliced blackened chicken, thick sourdough bread covered in mushrooms with a dark sauce, asparagus roasted and drizzled with balsamic vinegar. I’m salivating.

“My friend started this restaurant a few years ago. He’s still getting off the ground, but everything he makes is fantastic. I hope you’re hungry.”

I look from the heaven-scented food to Hudson, wondering where the catch is. Why me? Why this dinner? Is this how he acquires his victims? Draw them in under the guise of working together, make them feel important, like their writing matters, then ply them with delicious food until they succumb to his masculine wiles?

Well, crap. If that’s the case, it’s working. But I’m smarter than all the girls I’ve been stalking on Instagram who had been seen with him, because I’m aware of what’s going on. I’ll eat the food, absorb the praise, and go home alone.

I have to admit, his methods are subtle. He hasn’t flirted with me much at all. Not really.

“I’m starving,” I tell him, taking a fork and digging into the sourdough gravy thing. Holy mushrooms, this is delicious. I must moan aloud, because Hudson chuckles.

“I’ve told Pete to add it to his menu full time, but he won’t do it. Keeps it seasonal.”

“That’s a disgrace,” I say around another bite. “Is Pete single? I think I’m falling in love.”

“Happily engaged,” he says.

“What a shame,” I say around another bite.

Hudson watches me. “I need to learn how to make this stuff.”

My fork jerks against the mushroom toast, but I do my best to pretend I’m not affected by him.

Hudson grins. His smile is so wide and authentic, it knocks me back a little. A tendril of attraction buries itself deep within me, and I do my best to smother it, focusing on the food instead.

Part of me—just a tiny, itty-bitty part—wants to believe that maybe all those women were in the wrong, and maybe Hudson isn’t the player I thought he was. A girl can dream, right?