Page 25

It begins as a slight ping at the edge of my consciousness then eventually becomes a gnawing ache.

I know the doctor told me to eat.

But it’s the middle of the night and Hudson needs his rest, and…

He didn’t say it was okay for me to go prowling around, rustling through his pantry.

So, I ignore my rumbling stomach and try to get lost in Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy.

Unfortunately, that only works for a few more pages.

Then I can’t ignore my hunger.

It’s grown so intense that I set my book down, toss the covers back, and slide out of bed. My legs shake a little bit as I slowly make my way out of the room and into the hall, but they calm down, my stride evening out as I descend to the first floor.

I’m almost feeling normal by the time I make it into the kitchen.

Aside from the ravenous beast demanding sustenance that’s currently residing in my stomach.

On that note, I head straight for the fridge, intending to find some veggies and dip, something that won’t go directly to my ass.

Only…then I see the chocolate cake.

It’s mouth-watering, sitting there on the shelf, right at eye level.

I should have vegetables.

I should.

But I snag the chocolate cake from the fridge anyway, and when I see there’s a slice already cut from it, I know my internal battle is lost.

I’m going to have cake.

Somehow, just thinking that feels like a huge step.

At least until I set the plastic container housing it on the counter and look up.

Then gasp and clamp my hand to my throat when I see Hudson standing there. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I-I’m just moving it so I can find some vegetables.” A total lie, but his face is inscrutable and I can’t see his eyes because he’s standing in the shadows.

“You hungry?” he asks softly.

Mutely, I nod.

“And you’re looking for vegetables to eat at”—he glances at his watch—“almost two in the morning?”

Another mute nod.

“Fuck that,” he mutters, slowly moving forward, his hip seeming to be a bit stiffer than earlier as he walks to a cabinet and pulls out two plates and two glasses. Those, he sets next to the cake before he reaches for the knife block. “Grab the milk out and then close the fridge, yeah?”

I jerk, spin around, snag the milk, then carefully shut the fridge door.

By the time I’m turning back to face him, he’s at the island, knife next to the plates and he’s yanking off the plastic top that’s sealing in the cake.

“Pour two glasses.”

“Wh-what?”

“You allergic to milk?” he asks, setting the lid aside and reaching for the knife.