Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 101488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
“So are you a gin aficionado, Evelyn? Is that why I didn’t smell anything different between the two?”
I smiled. “I wouldn’t consider myself an aficionado of gin, no. To be honest, I mostly drink wine. But did I mention my occupation? I’m a fragrance chemist—a perfumist.”
“You make perfume?”
I nodded. “Among other things. I developed scents for a cosmetics and fragrance company for six years. Sometimes it was a new perfume, other times it was the scent for a wipe that removes makeup, or maybe a cosmetic that needs a more pleasant smell.”
“Pretty sure I never met a perfumist before.”
I smiled. “Is it as exciting as you’d hoped?”
He chuckled. “What exactly is the training for a job like that?”
“Well, I have a chemistry degree. But you can have all the education you want, and you still won’t be able to do the job unless you also have hyperosmia.”
“And that is…”
“An enhanced ability to smell odors, an increased olfactory acuity.”
“So you’re good at smelling shit?”
I laughed. “Exactly.”
A lot of people think they have a good sense of smell, but they don’t really understand how heightened the sense is for someone with hyperosmia. Demonstrating always worked best. Plus, I really wanted to know what cologne he was wearing. So, I leaned in and took a deep inhale of Hudson.
Exhaling, I said, “Dove soap.”
He didn’t look completely sold. “Yes, but that’s a pretty common soap choice.”
I smiled. “You didn’t let me finish. Dove Cool Moisture. It’s got cucumber and green tea in it—also a common ingredient in gins, by the way. And you use L’Oreal Elvive shampoo, same as me. I can smell gardenia tahitensis flower extract, rosa canina flower extract, and a slight hint of coconut oil. Oh, and you use Irish Spring deodorant. I don’t think you’re wearing any cologne, actually.”
Hudson’s brows rose. “Now that’s impressive. The wedding party stayed in a hotel last night, and I forgot to pack my cologne.”
“Which one do you normally wear?”
“Ah… I can’t tell you that. What will we do on our second date for entertainment if we don’t play the sniff test?”
“Our second date? I didn’t realize we were going to have a first.”
Hudson smiled and held out his hand. “The night’s young, Evelyn. Dance with me?”
A knot in the pit of my stomach warned me it was a bad idea. Fisher and I were supposed to stick together and limit contact with other people to minimize our chances of getting caught. But glancing around, my date was nowhere in sight. Plus, this man was seriously magnetic. Somehow, before my brain even finished debating the pros and cons, I found myself putting my hand in his. He led me to the dance floor and wrapped one arm around my waist, leading with the other. Not surprisingly, he knew how to dance.
“So, Evelyn with the extraordinary sense of smell, I’ve never seen you before. Are you a guest or a plus one?” He looked around the room. “Is some guy giving me the evil eye behind my back right now? Am I going to need to get Jack’s Taser from the car to ward off a jealous boyfriend?”
I laughed. “I am here with someone, but he’s just a friend.”
“The poor guy…”
I smiled. Hudson’s flirting was over the top, yet I gobbled it up. “Fisher is more interested in the guy who was passing out champagne than me.”
Hudson held me a little closer. “I like your date much better than I did thirty seconds ago.”
Goose bumps prickled my arms as he lowered his head, and his nose briefly brushed against my neck.
“You smell incredible. Are you wearing one of the perfumes you make?”
“I am. But it’s not one that can be ordered. I like the idea of having a true signature scent that someone can remember me by.”
“I don’t think you need the perfume to be remembered.”
He led me around the dance floor with such grace, I wondered if he had taken professional lessons. Most men his age thought slow dancing meant rocking back and forth and grinding an erection against you.
“You’re a good dancer,” I said.
Hudson responded by twirling us around. “My mother was a professional ballroom dancer. Learning wasn’t an option; it was a requirement if I wanted to be fed.”
I laughed. “That’s really cool. Did you ever consider following in her footsteps?”
“Absolutely not. I grew up watching her suffer with hip bursitis, stress fractures, torn ligaments—it’s definitely not the glamorous profession they make it out to be on all those dance-contest TV shows. You gotta love what you do for a job like that.”
“I think you have to love what you do for any job.”
“That’s a very good point.”
The song came to an end, and the emcee told everyone to take their seats.
“Where are you sitting?” Hudson asked.
I pointed to the side of the room where Fisher and I had been seated. “Somewhere over there. Table Sixteen.”