Trading Places
by Emily Duvall
Copyright © 2023 by Emily Duvall. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.
CHAPTER ONE
Lexi
Here’s how things stand.
No one’s puked yet. The group of influencers do their thing in pink lace lingerie. Some lap sitting is involved. Tight skin with some boob showing does the trick in the face of distinguished men and open shirt collars.
The auction is for a good cause, I swear. The huge crowd is hot bodies who made the required contributions. We are all committed to raising money for hunger awareness.
I press my lips together in distaste. Oh my God. Who dropped the ball and didn’t order the Cristal? “Traumatizing,” I say at the exact moment the dual confetti cannons spray the room to bursts of cheers and sloppy dancing.
I should let my anger go over the building engineer’s firm veto of my request to put in a giant swing in the portrait hall.
Guess we can’t get everything we want.
I check the message from my father. You charged $240,000 in three nights at Necker Island?
Guilty. But also? Not in the mood for a lecture. Best to skip the part where I rented the whole island. At least he’s not bringing up the latest gossip that I wrecked a marriage.
I delete his text. Oopsy.
Who could ever put a price on relaxation? Price tags are mythical creatures like unicorns. I know they’re out there. I swipe my diamond-dusted nails over my jaw’s ultra-soft skin for proof I have no regrets about using my father’s private jet.
A camera lens is suddenly in my face. I push my hand out. “Delete that shot,” I say to the hired photographer.
If someone were to take a closer look, they would see a twenty-five-year-old in a Chanel dress hand-stitched for me, Lexi North. The plunging satin neckline in my favorite plum color shows a flawless section of creamy, firm breasts giving off a look but don’t touch message and a slit showing off thighs made smooth by the white caviar body spa treatment.
Every eyelash is in place. Long, inky, and smooth. Four-inch heels on my feet.
If you took an even closer look, you would see a girl who showed up not to raise money to stock community pantries with oatmeal and pasta. I came to see the man I’ve been pining for since I saw him competing in a polo match in the ninth grade. Where is he?
He would be Hudson Hoffman.
The name alone has my heart pounding and my imagination overactive in anticipation of our reunion. I ignore the roar of my empty stomach and square my shoulders, giving a pouty, side-angled look in time for the photographer to click the camera.
“Your lips look luminous. What is that?” Talia asks, sipping her glass of white wine. My best friend could win hair awards with her shiny black hair. She pulls off blunt bangs (harder to achieve than one thinks).
I touch my finger to my lower lip graced by the twenty-four-karat gold-infused lip gloss. “A little something that hasn’t hit the market yet.” I sweep my hand over my Judith Lieber clutch with room for only three thousand dollars and my phone.
“Hudson just checked in.” Everyone needs a Talia in their corner. She always tells me what I want to hear. She stretches her arm with her phone in hand. “I might as well pick the dress I’ll wear to your wedding.”
“Nonsense.” I shake my wrist adorned with a bracelet of chunky diamonds. The heirloom is so popular it has an IG following of 75,000—just shy of my goal of 100,000 by the end of summer. “You’ll be my maid of honor. Oh, and, I hate to do this, but I’m charging for selfies.”
She lowers her arm and stares at me. “You’re what?”
“I’m exhausted by people wanting photos with me for free. Supply and demand, sweetie.” The solution is perfect for my father’s tedious nagging to make something of myself.
He will applaud me for my new photo op initiative enough to get off my back about how shoes don’t need to cost two grand. Anything less means I might as well tape rubber and shoestrings together.
My attention moves across the heavy gold framed portraits and marble busts to the crystal arch of the museum entrance. I wrap my fingers around Talia’s wrist. Air leaves my chest like someone pulled my mask at an oxygen bar. “There he is.”
Talia’s drink is halfway to her mouth. “Damn he looks pretty.”
Brown hair parted with a touch of gel. The no-tie navy suit with a crisp white shirt shows off his sizable chest. The commanding look scrambling my insides is what I’ve been waiting for.
Time to put on my best indifferent face. “Hudson,” I say, stepping in front of Talia. The two of us are unmoving, looking at each other like no time has passed. “It’s so good to see you.”
Hudson checks me out with what seems like approval. “You look beautiful, as always.”
For three years, I’ve waited for Hudson to move back to Alexandria, and now he’s finally here. Forget my parched mouth. This is exactly as I dreamed.
Next, he will finally tell me how going to California to pursue his law degree was worth the time, but nothing compares to how much he’s missed me.
We are going to look perfect this summer. Side by side at the galas and parties. Yacht club jaunts over long weekends. A trip to my summer home in the Hamptons. Mouths are moving in jealous whispers around us.
It was always supposed to be us.
Will there be a ring? Anything is possible.
My heart is swelling. My smile is riding high. This is my future. He is my future.
“I can’t believe we’re living in the same city again.” Hudson plucks a glass of wine from a server and gives it a sniff. “How are you?” His detached tone tugs the strangest feeling in my gut.
Come on, Hudson. Skip the pleasantries. Get to the real stuff. Where are we waking up tomorrow? Are we back on?
“I’ve been busy with my fundraising commitments. I’m redefining the swag bag—”
His phone rings and he reaches in his jacket, pulling it out. He presses the phone to his ear. “I’m by the ice sculpture.”
Something is off with him, with our energy. The weird vibe calls for reassurance. “It must be overwhelming to be back. I was beginning to think you would live out there permanently.”
“Virginia is my home, you know that.”
I follow Hudson’s gaze over to the life-size ice sculpture, a naked statue of David sporting a white fedora.
Usually clothes don’t come off until the after party.
“I don’t want to waste time.” I get to the point. “We agreed when you moved we would keep options open and I have. I think about our times together. We have something between us. We always have. Even when I was dating other people, you were always in the back of my head. I never stopped loving you.”
“I met someone,” he says crassly, nodding his head at something behind me.
I freeze. Three horrible words. I. Met. Someone.
Foolishly, I turn in time to see a dark-haired beauty wearing a beaded dress standing feet away.
No.
I turn back to Hudson.
The spark in his eye lights a match to my jealousy. “That’s Isabella.”
I’m speechless. Confusion pounds my thoughts. Hudson’s grinning?
I’ve been waiting for this man to return to me like a fool and he’s dumping me in front of an audience. He doesn’t get to walk away without hearing me out.
“I don’t understand.” My voice is unreasonably loud, stopping conversations around us.
“What don’t you understand?” He grinds out the words with the warmth of concrete. “Isabella and I met at Berkley. She’s passionate about so much. Volunteering, the environment, cooking.”
“Then I’ll bake a chicken.” I’m sounding desperate. I don’t care. Whoever she is, what she can do, I can do better.
Maybe not a chicken. My personal chef can handle that.
His pitying look says it all. “You? In a kitchen? Sweetheart, we both know you couldn’t figure out turning on the burner. Isabella opened my eyes to our lifestyle.” He leans in to me. “Did you ever think your spot at Princeton could have gone to someone who would have followed through?”
Tension squeezes my shoulder blades. The stillness in me is as rigid as the hurtful point he’s making. His words are like someone blowing out candles on a cake. One insult at a time.
“I don’t have to work and I left Princeton to realize my life plan.” Whatever that was. I’m sure it was good. “You can’t fault me for being born into money any more than someone born into poverty.”
“The difference is that you live off your father’s fortune like you’re still sixteen.” His hands gesture as if they’re blowing up. “Everyone knows Lexi North does not like to get her hands dirty.” He straightens his jacket and whispers, “Look at this party.”
I break my gaze away to the surrounding gold and pink glam theme. Hudson and I are now the entertainment, undeniable snickering and whispering directed at us.
“You’re a joke.” He lays down the final slight.
Hudson’s cold, demeaning assessment has me holding back tears with the sheer force of willpower.
“I thought who I am would be enough.” I cringe at the sound of my own vulnerability. I am still just a girl with a beating heart like the rest of them.
“I’m sure you are. Just not for me.” He shrugs and nods to Isabella. “I found someone I believe in.” He leaves me to my racing heart and spinning thoughts, adding just before he goes, “But you do look really hot.”
I shove my hand to the camera and startle the photographer. “Stop taking photos. Hudson,” I call out his name loudly, causing him to turn without an ounce of love in his strained jaw. “If you think I’m so shallow, then you’re wrong. Watch this.”
I stomp through the parting sea of silent guests and grab a glass of champagne. My destination is the entrance. “Out of my way,” I order the doormen.
They push the glass doors open in time for me to stumble out of the museum and onto King’s Street, startling a group of women holding ice cream cones. I down my drink and drop the glass.
“Free money!” I shout with tears filling my eyes, careful to step over the shattered glass.
“What are you doing?” Hudson shouts, grabbing my arm. I shake him off.
I reach into my clutch and pull out my wad of cash and fan it in front of me. People on the street flock to the scene. “See, Hudson? This is me trying. How’s this for charity?”
People just stare at me. A woman holds up her cell phone and squints at her screen.
I climb onto a bench on unsteady feet. “Who wants cash?”
One fifty at a time, I swipe the bills into the air. There’s a pause of hesitation and a guy scoops up the first bill. The crowd jumps in, picking up what they can.
Tomorrow I’ll plug the hole in my heart with a refresh from my trust fund.
I throw and throw until the cash runs out, leaving my hands empty. A glimpse over my shoulder shows me Talia, shaking her head at me with parental-like disgust.
I can’t go back inside.
Doesn’t matter. Talia will be my best friend in the morning because she needs me. They all need my last name to open their doors.
Hudson’s hard-lined expression is more than I can face. His attention turns to Isabella clutching his arm. Three years I waited. What a waste.
I turn abruptly and get down, catching myself before my high heel causes me to face-plant. I snap my fingers at the valet. “Get my car.”
I don’t look back toward the building until my custom-built Audi is in front of me and I take the keys and slam the car door.
I step on the gas, peeling out of there, my only thought to flee from the utter disaster in front of me. Traffic, though, has other plans.
The minivan in front of me is going under the speed limit and the car on the left paces me. I suck in an irritated breath.
Tears are not allowed. I don’t cry over men who don’t want me. The simmering in my chest creeps up my throat, my hands grip the wheel, and I burst around the minivan with the green light ahead.
A horn honks, startling me from my thoughts and I push the gas pedal at the terrifying moment I see the car in front of me is stopped.
I grip the steering wheel as the car in front of me looms larger—
I scream hard and loud as my car smashes into the back end of the vehicle in front of me with a heavy impact.
Jagged pain hits my neck and I scream again. My knuckles are white, frozen on the wheel, the seatbelt locked against my chest.
Everything turns quiet except for my fast-pounding heartbeats. A wave of delayed shock hits. Someone lays on the horn, startling me into moving my quivering hands.
I don’t know what to do first.
Get out of the car. Call for help.
I fumble around in my purse with the contents spilled over the passenger side and push the seat belt button and get out on shaky feet.
There’s movement inside the car I hit.
The driver’s door opens.
The first thing I notice is his height. My eyes move up his tall, muscled body to a head of ash-blond hair tied back in a scraggly ponytail. He’s sporting a faded red Capitals T-shirt and cargo shorts. He turns to me, his gaze riding right down the front of my formfitting gown and back to my face, and he slams his door.
“What were you doing?” he snaps.
“What was I doing?” Momentary worry for my life and his vanishes. He doesn’t appear to have a scratch on him and, judging by his tone, he makes the same assumption about me.
He comes closer, pausing at the very dented, very damaged back end of his midsize car with rust around the bumper. His hand scrapes his forehead. “This had to happen. Great. Just great.”
The words I want to say are stuck in my throat, the panic settling in that it could have been worse. “Thanks for asking if I’m okay,” I say to myself, unaware he hears and earning a look with clear meaning. I am to blame.
Traffic resumes around us with drivers peering over at us to get a look.
He’s on his phone, fingers typing furiously, and he sticks it against his ear. He stalks around the car and gives an idle kick to one of his tires. “I’m reporting an accident.”
Accident protocol is new to me. Surely someone shows up and takes care of it all. Unsure about the next steps, I wait until he’s off the phone and follow his lead taking photos of the damage.
We wind up standing side by side, our phones out, each of us locked in a passive-aggressive photo challenge. His gaze sneaks to mine, holding for a split second; his green eyes flare and narrow. A cool dose of hatred pierces me. Like I’ve been skewered by something sharp and hot.
As if my night was going so well already, I have to deal with this guy.
