Off the Record: A Sweet Office Romantic Comedy (The Nashville Romantics Book 1)
Off the Record: Chapter 7

“Did you see the invitation?” Simone asks, rocking back in her chair and spearing a cucumber with her fork. We’re having lunch at our desks—or, rather, she’s eating lunch at my desk while I snack on peanut butter filled pretzels and polish the article due by the end of today, the one about Linus the shop owner. It’s been just over a week since I met Linus, and three days since the first paper went out with my human-interest articles. We’re calling the column “People of Nashville,” and I haven’t heard yet whether it tanked.

“What invitation?” I ask, popping another pretzel in my mouth.

Simone chews her cucumber. “We’re all invited to the awards banquet next weekend.”

I glance up. Hudson had told me about it when he’d ordered dinner that evening over a week ago. His friend Pete, who made the amazing mushroom sourdough toast, is catering the banquet. I frown. Was that really only a week ago? Hudson and I have been spending so much time together it felt like much longer.

Not that our little excursions to replace the People of Nashville or our late-night text conversations have meant anything, of course. Hudson has been hyper focused on the Rhythm, and I’ve been part of that. There’s no part of me that believes he means anything special by the attention. He enjoys my friendship, that’s all.

“We’re always invited,” Stan says from his desk a few feet away. His frown lines sit over dark, thick eyebrows, his thick sweater making him look all of his forty-five years. “But why go? Mr. Prescott just wants to hand out awards to his favorite people. It’s basically just a big pat on his own back. The Rhythm never wins anything.”

“You’re letting your bitterness show, Stan,” Simone says. We all knew Stan was nominated the last two years for outstanding writing, but he didn’t win either time.

“Well, what’s the point of the nominations if every award will go to the Tribune anyway?” Stan mutters.

The Nashville Tribune is the most elite of our publications, and I aspire to someday write for them. That doesn’t make it sting less when they win every award every year. I wouldn’t know firsthand—this is still my first year with the company.

“So Stan won’t be going,” Simone says, eyebrows up as she swivels to face me again. “We will, right? We can eat their food and drink their drinks. Sounds like a win-win.”

“Who are you hoping to see there?” I ask, reading over my final sentence again and thinking it needs more of a punch. It falls down at the end, and I need to think of a way to swing up instead.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says in a way that means she knows exactly what I’m talking about.

“You must have someone in mind⁠—”

“Okay, fine,” she hisses, scooting her chair closer. “Have you met Phil from the Outdoors?”

“No, but I’ve seen his name. He’s a photographer, right?”

“Yeah, and he’s up for an award.”

“Won’t win it,” Stan says from his desk.

Simone ignores him. “We met in the lobby while I was leaving Friday. It was maybe three minutes, but I’m pretty sure I fell in love.”

“With Phil,” I ask, verifying.

“Yes. With Phil. He doesn’t look like the kind of guy who would do photos for an outdoorsy mag, but the way he smiled at me—” She sighs. “I need to see him again. Preferably while I’m in a tight red dress and have my wing woman for support.”

“The food is supposed to be pretty good,” I say noncommittally.

Simone clutches my shoulders and looks me in the eye. “Please don’t make me go alone.”

It honestly doesn’t take much convincing, but I don’t want her to notice or she’ll figure out why I really want to go.

Spoiler: it has nothing to do with the food.

I’ve stalked Hudson pretty much nonstop over the last two weeks on socials, and that man can sport a tux like you wouldn’t believe. There’s a lot of evidence in the past to prove it—him attending various functions on different women’s arms. Needless to say, I’m interested in seeing it in real life.

“What happened to the cowboy hat guy from Whiskey Sage?” I ask.

Simone shrugs, dropping her arm. “It’s only been a few dates, but it’s not progressing.”

“Okay. I’ll go with you so you can see your photographer.”

She squeals quietly. “You won’t regret it.”

“She probably will,” Stan says, which we ignore.

A sudden awareness prickles the back of my neck. I look over my shoulder to see Hudson standing in the doorway of his office, chatting with Andrea. He’s looking at me, so I do the very mature thing and look back at my screen straight away. I can’t take in his sleek blue Oxford shirt and crisp dark tie for another second, or my mind will wander.

“Should we go shopping this weekend?” Simone asks, scrolling through her phone. “I don’t actually have a tight red dress ye—” She cuts off when Leo’s looming presence falls over my desk.

I’ve done my best to ignore him, but he has a way of popping up unexpectedly. He’s kind of like a pimple—I’m never happy to see him, and sometimes it even hurts. Not because I want to be with him again. No, I’m long over that. Mostly because being treated poorly and suffering betrayal don’t vanish without a bruise.

“What?” Simone asks, not bothering to hide her dislike. It shouldn’t make me feel cheered, but it does.

“Are you both going to the awards banquet?” he asks.

Simone’s eyes narrow. “You shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations.”

Leo’s losing his patience. He looks at me, raising one dark eyebrow. We’d talked about going together and winning in our categories, back when we were dating. I wasn’t nominated, but he must remember I’d like to take home a company award for my writing someday. It would probably help get me to the Tribune if I did.

“I hope you’ll all go,” Hudson says behind me, making me freeze. When did my desk become the office hotspot? “I happen to know that the food will be incredible.”

Simone shoots me a glance. “Funny. Paisley said the same thing.”

“Mr. Owens’s friend is catering. I’ve eaten from his restaurant before,” I tell her.

Her look becomes appraising but, thankfully, she doesn’t say anything more.

“I’ll be there,” Leo says, puffing his chest the slightest bit. “I’m nominated in the photography category.”

“Oh, are you?” Hudson asks, like he wasn’t part of the committee who chose the nominees. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.” Leo is glowing.

“Paisley, can I steal you for a moment? I wanted to run a change by you regarding the rooftop singer.”

“Of course.” The guitarist was a guy in his early thirties. We’d met him a few evenings ago playing at a bar on a hotel rooftop downtown. There had been a glass wall separating him from a pool filled with families and young kids, and it had been chaotic in a good way. Hudson and I had ordered a plate of parmesan truffle fries to share and sipped drinks while listening to him play his set, then interviewed him when he was finished.

I’m guessing that’s not really what Hudson wants to talk about. My curiosity is piqued. I close my computer and stand to follow him anywhere but here. To my surprise, he doesn’t walk back to his office. I can feel all the eyes in the office—okay, not really, but it feels that way—on us as we walk to the elevator bay and step aside.

“I hope this is okay. I need to get something from my old office.”

“Sure.” When we’re safely inside the elevator, him standing on one side, me on another, I can feel tension sizzling in the massive gap between us. I’m practically hugging the wall, but mostly so it will keep me upright.

“I’ve been wanting to talk to you about the awards banquet,” he says. Ah, I’d been correct in my suspicion. He didn’t actually want to discuss the article.

I feel like that particular article will almost write itself anyway—just like Linus’s had, and Sharon the chicken register worker, and Tina the bartender. None of them had been particularly tricky to write. Their stories were interesting, bleeding onto the page easily.

Hudson leans against the handrail, his blue eyes pinning me. He wants to talk about the banquet, and since the majority of our conversations center around writing articles for the Rhythm, I have a sneaking suspicion he wants me to write something up for that too. Oh gosh. If he wants me to write about his uncle, I might have to turn him down. That man is not very micro. What’s above a lion on the food chain? Because Mr. Prescott is that.

“Will you be going?” I ask.

“It’s mandatory for admin. My uncle wants me to give a speech,” he says, cringing.

“And you need help writing it?”

The elevator doors ding and slide open, but Hudson doesn’t move. “No, I’ve written it already.” He hesitates a beat before letting them slide closed again. “Has Leo been bothering you?”

“Not more than usual. But if you wanted to ship him off somewhere for more photos, I wouldn’t be mad.”

Hudson’s smile is soft. He hits the button and the doors open again. “I don’t think we’ll have a traveling job for him for a while. But if he’s pestering you⁠—”

“He’s really not.” I’m being honest, too. “We broke up a few months ago, and he’s only tried to check in with me a few times to make sure I’m okay. Honestly, the worst part is how sympathetic he’s trying to be. Like he’s moved on, but he’s worried I’m still pining and depressed.”

“Are you?”

The doors are about to close again, so I put my hand out to stop them. Hudson seems to realize we’re just hanging out in an elevator that someone else might be calling from a different floor. He steps out. I follow him down the hallway, and we reach a wooden door that opens to a room with a large desk and an excellent view of the city. I cross to the window and look over Nashville. It’s gorgeous. We should have eaten dinner in here last week. We’re almost up in the clouds. I bet the sunset goes on forever.

Hudson closes the door. He walks to the desk and leans against it, looking at me. “Are you still pining?”

“I never pined,” I tell him, pointing my finger at his chest like he’d called me a Ravens fan. “Leo just needs to think that because he’s obsessed with himself.”

Okay, maybe that’s not fair. He isn’t evil; he’s just scummy.

Hudson doesn’t look convinced. It becomes really important that he understand how nonexistent Leo’s hold is on me. “He cheated,” I tell him bluntly, dropping my arm. “I found him in the broom closet with Kyla Langford before his last work trip, and we ended things there. We’re all trying to replace a way to cohabit this office, but I’m not carrying a torch for him. Once a guy does that, he loses my respect and my affection pretty quickly.”

Hudson has grown still. He rests his hands on the desk, watching me, a small furrow casting a shadow on his brow. “Why didn’t Ben fire him? We have very low tolerance for dalliances during work hours. On work property is an extremely fireable offense.”

“Probably because I didn’t tell him.”

Hudson’s frown deepens. “Why not?”

That’s a good question. I pull out his desk chair, the camel-colored leather as soft as his luxury car seats, and sit down. Sheesh, does BMW make office chairs too? Closing my eyes, I try to remember what I’d been thinking at the time. “I wanted to, but it felt spiteful, I guess? I don’t have a good reason. His work trip was going to remove him from the office for a while and I was so shocked I didn’t know what to do, so I did nothing. Not a good reason, I know, but I was in a bit of a state.”

“I don’t blame you,” he says softly, looking down at me. His arms are straight, his hands still resting on the edge of the desk while he leans against it, and I can see the outline of his muscles through his shirt. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to do nothing now that I’m aware.”

“Can you pretend I didn’t say anything? This conversation is completely off the record. Just a friend chatting with a friend.”

“Friends, huh?”

“Yes,” I say, looking up at him and willing him to agree. Maybe I’m feeling too emboldened by the way we’ve been spending time together the last few weeks, by the texting and work meetings and excursions to meet people who would be a good fit for my column. I’ve had more dinners with Hudson this week than my own sister, whom I live with. “I think it’s fair to call you a friend. Friends have off the record conversations all the time, because that’s what being a friend is. Trusting in the other person and being able to safely confide.”

“You can safely confide in me,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows.

“I won’t say anything to HR, but you have to know it’s greatly against my wishes.”

“I see that, and I’m grateful for it.”

He sighs, giving his head a slight shake. “Are you going to the awards banquet to support him?”

“No. To be clear, Leo and I are not and never will be friends. We are cohabiting office space. That is all.” I consider how much to share, but I really do feel like I can trust him. “I’m going to wing-woman for Simone.”

“You don’t have a date?”

“No, nor a dress. I think Simone has a plan to rectify that.”

“Well, you can come as my date.”

My entire body freezes, molding to the shape of the leather chair. Is he offering just to be nice, or for something more? How badly I want it to mean something more buzzes through me like an irritating neon sign. “To make Leo jealous?”

He searches my eyes before nodding. “Yeah.”

Hope rushes out of me like a popped balloon. It’s not what I want—but let’s be real, Hudson is dangerous territory anyway. I don’t want to be the flavor of the week. They don’t last long.

Besides, I have zero desire to make Leo jealous. I don’t want to make Leo feel anything at all.

“It’s okay. Leo isn’t worth⁠—”

“Not jealous, then,” Hudson says quickly. “To show him you’ve moved on, so he’ll leave you alone.”

Well, that idea has merit.

“Okay,” I say, then shake my head. “I mean, I have to go with Simone.”

“Right, yeah.” He looks flustered. “I’ll meet you there. We can sit together—all of us. And, uh…Leo won’t be anywhere near our table.”

If Leo keeps checking in with me because he’s worried about my mental health and recovery from our breakup, then seeing me with someone else will undoubtedly put those fears to rest. If it’s fake sympathy to rub his relationship in my face, then maybe this will shut him up. It’s really a no-lose situation.

My smile is spreading. “Okay. Now he’ll finally move on.”

He matches it. “I’m guessing Leo regrets ever even looking at that broom closet.”

I roll my eyes, laughing. Maybe it’s immature, but the plan is growing on me. I know I should be more mature than wanting to prove to my ex that I’ve won the breakup, but Hudson is a catch. This is definitely winning. If I’m being honest with myself, I’ll admit I want to go with him just for the sake of going with him.

We chat for a few more minutes before heading back to the Rhythm floor, and it’s not until I reach the elevator that I realize Hudson never took anything from his office.