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25

Hudson

“You don’t have to go,” Dane says, stepping closer. His words might tell me not to leave, but his face begs me to behave.

I take a step back. “Something tells me my presence isn’t wanted.”

I glance over at Molly, who has suddenly become very interested in her shoes. No one can call her subtle.

Dane’s gaze bounces between us. “You know it wouldn’t be unheard of for you to . . . I don’t know, get along.”

Molly snorts. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“Wanting to kill each other is apparently more our speed,” I respond.

“Come on, guys. Is it really that hard? I never understood why you hated each other. It’s not like anything happened?” If only he knew how much he didn’t know about her. Not that I know a lot, but it’s obvious she’s holding back on him.

She finally lifts her head from where it was angled, looking at the floor. Her expression tries to appear neutral, but in my opinion, I don’t know who she thinks she’s fooling. It’s written as clear as day on her features that there is a story there.

“It would be pretty hard,” I say, cutting the tension.

Dane inclines his head, leveling me with a stare that would frighten most men. Not me, of course, but most. “Seriously, Wilde, are you making a dick joke at my sister?”

I hold up my hands in mock innocence. “Not this time.” But I can’t help when my lips split into a grin. “But it is tempting.”

Dane’s eyes narrow. “Seriously.”

“He’s easy to want to kill, isn’t he?” Molly mutters.

“That’s neither here nor there.” The way Dane looks at his sister while he says this makes me want to laugh. He’s got the dad scolding face reserved for a kid who just painted the walls with peanut butter and is attempting to lick it off.

“I’m funny. Admit it, Dane.”

“That you’re easy to kill. Sure, I’ll admit it. But seriously, just get along. For my sake, at least.”

I tilt my head toward Molly. “How about it?”

She lets out a long-drawn-out breath, dipping her head like she’s considering it. “Sure, Dane, I’ll get right on it. Hell, maybe we can take up a hobby together.” She meets my stare. “How do you feel about crocheting? We can make matching scarfs.”

“I’ve always been interested in making my own clothes. Maybe we should make something for Dane to wear.”

“That’s a fabulous idea.” Her lip tips up. “See, look at that. Your plan is already working.” She smirks at Dane.

“I think his color is pink.”

“Fuchsia?”

“Yeah. Maybe with canary yellow.”

Dane ignores me and instead glares at us both. “For fuck’s sake. You guys are driving everyone insane.”

Molly throws her hands up. “Fine.”

“Fine,” I agree, leaning forward and allowing my lips to tip up into a smile. Molly rolls her eyes instantly.

“What are you smirking about?”

“Me? Smirking?”

She throws her hands up. “I give up. Dane, he’s intolerable.”

“Who? Me?” I put a hand to my chest, feigning shock.

“Yes. You. Even now, that damn smirk. Jeez, Hudson, grow up.”

“Grow up? Hell, why would I do that? We should make it more interesting.”

She narrows her eyes. “Yeah, and how are we going to do that?”

“How about a bet?” I grin like a fool. No way will she be able to resist.

She raises an eyebrow. She knows she’s walking into a trap. I can practically see her brain working, weighing out whether she’ll play along.

She’ll do it.

No way she’s saying no.

It’s not in her nature to back down from a challenge.

“If you can go through the rest of the playoffs without arguing with me, I’ll stop annoying you.” God, I’m a smug bastard. But this will be so worth it.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Nope. Scout’s honor.” I place my hand on my chest.

She snorts. “No way you’re a Boy Scout.”

“You don’t know me. Maybe I am.”

“Fine.” She leans in slightly. “Let’s say you can actually do that. What happens if I lose?” she asks.

I shrug. “I’ll get back to you.”

“Nah, that’s BS.” She points a slender finger at me. “No way am I agreeing to these terms.”

“Afraid you can’t be nice for a few weeks? Wow, Moll, that’s concerning.”

Dane, who’s silently been watching us like a tennis match, suddenly speaks up. “I’m going to have to agree with Hudson. Even though ninety percent of the time he talks out of his ass, he’s making sense this time.”

“I’m wounded, Sinclair.”

“No, you’re not.” He laughs.

“Yeah, I’m not.” But my words don’t match how I feel. All of this, it’s all a fucking facade, and they don’t even see it. The jokes and the banter are a hell of a lot easier than admitting how I truly feel.

I extend my hand. “Do we have a deal?”

She eyes me carefully before sighing. “Sure. Whatever.”