Even expecting that Hudson wouldn't argue, it still stung that he didn't. Don Juan kept smoking and watching him for a minute, trying to figure out what his game was. The invitation was open for what? Why drop the hint inside? Why have the coat cleaned? Things didn't add up. He could rationalize one piece, but failed to incorporate the others. If this was just about sex and had never been about anything more: sure, abandon the blond for someone who was available tonight, extend an invitation — but why have the coat cleaned? If they were friends, but only that: the coat being cleaned was a nice gesture, thoughtful, but why interrupt an apparently productive conversation with a young woman to get his attention just to tell him about it? He could have sent the coat any time, or an owl.

As he tried to dissect Hudson with his eyes he told himself he only wanted to know which it was, but that was a lie. There was a right answer; something he was hoping for. He just hadn't been honest enough with himself to know what it was.

He was just weighing whether it would seem desperate to volunteer a goodbye kiss — and whether he cared if it seemed desperate — when they were interrupted. Don Juan had a drink again, and Hudson was leaving, and it seemed he'd missed his chance to untangle this.

There was another twist in the knot, one that didn't fit anywhere either: Don Juan knew Hudson well enough by now to read his body language. He wasn't happy with this turn of events. They had that in common, then.

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