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“Good to know,” I whisper to him as he removes his gaze from me and focuses back on my hand.
“Now, I hope that you can refrain from any further accidents with sharp objects. Not that I mind mending you. You are my favorite patient,” he says, looking at me with a sexy-as-sin smirk before giving me a wink as he starts his final stitch.
“Can’t promise anything,” I tease, and he chuckles. It’s contagious. It feels nice to smile. These small snippets of what life could be like make me ache with longing. I love them and despise them in equal parts.
“There,” he says with finality, looking at his handiwork. “Those stitches will need to stay in for about a week. I will bandage it for you, but you need to keep it clean and dry for a good few days.” He cups my hand, inspecting where he stitched. My hand is small in his, his embrace warm, and my whole body flushes at the contact.
“I will do my best,” I tell him to get my mind back on the issue. I can’t lie. I have washing to do, dishes too, so it’s bound to get wet.
“I hope that you do. Maybe I should do daily house calls? Make sure you are doing what you are told?” he murmurs, looking at me under his brow, already knowing I won’t rest it and will continue to use it in every way he is telling me not to. My hand still rests in his. I haven’t moved and neither has he, and I don’t miss the way his thumb strums along my palm as he contemplates.
“Do you not trust me?” I tease, a smile dancing on my lips.
“Ohhhh, I do. I trust you wholeheartedly. But I know you don’t put yourself first, so that might be something I step in and do. I kinda like the idea of taking care of you,” he says, and I swallow as I take a shaky breath. I’ve never had anyone take care of me. I wouldn’t even know what that felt like.
“Thank you, Hudson,” I say seriously, appreciating him coming and putting me back together. The pain is now almost gone due to a light numbing cream he used on my hand. I would like to tell him he didn’t have to come, but as the town doctor, he kind of did. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“The cream should help tonight. I think your thumbs will still work to text me, you know, in case you ever want to get back to my messages.”
I bite my lip and smile. Him calling me out for ignoring his messages feels like our own little inside joke. It’s nice to have something between us. I look up at him, and his eyes don’t leave mine. He moves his leg then, his knee brushing against my own, and my breath quickens at our closeness.
“Dinner is ruined,” I comment with a sigh, lookingover my shoulder at the kitchen behind me. His mother rushed in with him tonight, and while Hudson took me to the table to address my injury, Susan helped my mom who was in a flustered panic, before she kindly cleaned up the shredded lettuce and other ingredients that were either on the counter or the floor. I feel a deep pang of guilt looking at the sparkling clean kitchen, knowing I didn’t do it and had guests in my home who did it for me. I now need to order Susan some flowers to say thank you, or maybe get her a little gift from the distillery and mentally add that to my never-ending to-do list. Victoria and Annabelle are working on some goat milk soaps at the moment, so that might be nice for her. My mind then flicks to the fact that I still need to scrounge around in the kitchen to put something else together before Mom gets too hungry. My own stomach now growls, it demanding food too.
“Don’t worry about that. I handled it,” he says, and my head whips back around so fast I almost stumble in my seat.
“What? What do you mean, handled it?” I ask in confusion, having no idea what he is talking about.
“When we got here and I saw everything, I called Rochelle. Asked her to bring something over for dinner and something you can just heat up for tomorrow night as well. I could see that you needed something and it should be here soon,” he says casually, like it is the most natural thing in the world for someone to do as he looks at the time on his Rolex that shimmers under my dining room lights.
“You didn’t have to do that.” I’m equal parts appreciativeand tentative. “How much was it? Let me get my purse.” I move, about to stand, but his hold on my hand tightens, stopping me. I look at him, noticing his jaw pop.
“You need to eat, and I knew I didn’t want you using this hand again tonight, so I took care of it.” His hand comes to my face and pushes a hair from my cheek, curling it around my ear.Took care of it. I have no words, no idea what to say. I’ve never been in this position before. Guilt at not doing what I need to do for Mom, mixed in with a sprinkling of gratitude and uncertainty, makes a mess of my stomach as it sinks a little.
“Speak of the devil, here she is,” Hudson says, standing at the sight of car lights shooting through the already darkening sky. My mind whirls, struggling to keep up with exactly what is happening as I watch Hudson go to my door. Opening it like he lives here, he meets Rochelle and grabs the bags before she makes a quick exit. The smell of her delicious homemade chicken soup encases my home and my mouth waters. He takes the bags to the kitchen and starts unpacking them, and I fidget, my nerves dancing. I can’t let him help me like this, but before I can jump up, his mom rushes in.
“Let me get that ready for you all,” Susan says with a broad smile and gets busy in the kitchen as Hudson sits back next to me, grabbing a bandage out of his bag. My body tenses. I don’t like this. Susan is a guest; she shouldn’t be in my kitchen, putting together our dinner. She’s already done too much with the cleanup. Hudson shouldn’t have ordered it, and I feel nauseous because I don’t want to be in debt to anyone. This town talks. Toomuch. The last thing I need is people discussing my finances now as well.
“Relax. It’s just chicken soup. It’s already hot so it will take her two minutes to put some in bowls for you and your mom,” Hudson says as he gently wraps the bandage around my hand. Clearly, I’m an open book because he knew exactly what I was thinking, and I can’t move because he has my hand hostage.
“She doesn’t need to worry. I could have done it,” I tell him, not wanting to sound ungrateful, but feeling really uncomfortable having all the attention and assistance.
“Not with this hand, you can’t. Besides, I’m pretty sure she’s going to make you a week’s worth of pot roast once we leave here.” He grins, knowing that I hate all this help, yet my mouth waters slightly, because Susan makes the best pot roast I’ve ever eaten. I look down and see the bandage nice and thick around my hand and frown.
“I’m not going to be able to do anything with this,” I say to him, my hand now firmly wrapped.
“That is my plan.” With a smirk, he finishes off the bandage as his mom delivers a bowl of soup over to us before taking one to my mother in the living room and leaving us to it again. My stomach rumbles at the smell. Rochelle is the best cook in town and her chicken soup is no exception.
“Hungry?” Hudson asks with a small smile, clearly hearing my stomach.
“No, I’m fine,” I lie through my teeth as my stomach rumbles embarrassingly loudly.
“Liar,” he says with a chuckle, clearly enjoying himself. “Here, let me help you.” He moves the bowlcloser. I go to grab the spoon and stop. The hand I hurt is my right one, the hand I use for everything, and there’s absolutely no way I will be able to grip a spoon and feed myself soup with this bandaged hand. I go to grab the spoon in my left hand instead, but that feels so uncoordinated I already know that I will miss my mouth more times than I will meet it. Spilling soup on my already mess of a top in front of Hudson is about as enticing as slicing my hand on that blade again.
“I… I can’t…” I stutter, frustrated, hungry, yet stubborn enough to keep trying.
“Let me feed you,” Hudson says, sweeping up the spoon and dunking it into the bowl. I suck in a sharp breath and feel a little dizzy again.
“No. It’s fine. I can do it.” But it’s too late, the spoon is filled with soup and lifted to my face, waiting for me.