Page 11

Eleven

Dash

There’s a lot to unpack with Willow’s situation.

We’ve talked a lot the last week or so, and while I have a better understanding of how it happened, I still struggle with her inability to walk away from Dylan.

Intellectually, I know her situation is complicated.

Her mother made a decision when she was seventeen that still impacts her today, and the fact that this incredibly wealthy, successful woman can’t access her own money is mind-boggling.

I’ve put in a call to Madeline Aronson, an entertainment attorney who knows her way around contracts and litigation. Royal uses her, and she and Atlas are pretty tight, so I trust her, but she wants to meet with Willow and for some reason I’ve been loath to set it up.

It’s ridiculous but we’re in this private little bubble, just the two of us, and I know that I’ll probably never have such intimate access to someone like Willow ever again. Once she leaves, she’ll go on with her life, forget about me, and the truth is—I’m…attached.

Maybe that’s the wrong word.

It’s more like I’m invested.

In her, her situation, and our…friendship?

I’ve taken on a kind of protector role, but it’s more than that.

We laugh a lot, working seamlessly in the kitchen as I teach her some of the basics of cooking and food preparation. She’s a quick study, so it’s been fun to spend that time together. Almost like a couple.

God knows, it’s been a long time since I’ve been in a relationship.

College, actually.

Between being in the military, losing Colt, and then being active in Frankie’s life, I haven’t had the time or the inclination for relationships.

Willow being here has reminded me how lonely that can be.

Normally, I enjoy it.

Lately, not so much.

It’s probably because Banks and Royal have fallen in love and brought two incredible women into our lives. We’re a family, so anyone that’s important to them becomes important to us.

Ironically, I’m breaking our unwritten family code by hiding Willow. This isn’t how we do things, especially when someone is in trouble.

But I made Willow a promise and feel strongly about sticking to it.

There’s an MMA fight on TV, so I’m in the kitchen gathering up what I need for an ice cream sundae, when I feel more than hear movement behind me.

“Hey, uh, Hudson?” Willow’s voice is soft.

“Hey.” I turn curiously.

She looks amazing in soft lavender sweatpants and a matching hoodie, her hair in a messy ponytail.

We did a little online shopping so she could wear something other than my robe and oversized T-shirts.

She was extremely frugal, buying the most inexpensive items she could find, and using a notebook to keep track of every dime I spent.

She’s determined to pay me back, which is ridiculous considering how little it was.

“Is it okay if I make a sandwich?”

I frown.

“Willow.” I can’t keep the annoyance out of my voice. “I’ve told you a dozen times to make yourself at home. You don’t have to ask permission. I’m not Dylan.”

She recoils slightly, and I instantly regret my sharp tone, but this is the one thing that’s gotten on my nerves. She asks my permission before she does almost anything. Eat, drink, watch TV—whatever it is, she comes to me first.

I understand she’s a guest in the home of someone she barely knows, but I’ve told her it’s fine. Anything she wants to do is okay with me. Hell, I’d let her sleep in my bed if she wanted to, though I didn’t tell her that.

“I—I’m sorry.” She dips her head, as if embarrassed, and I let out a huff of frustration.

I didn’t mean to upset her, but she has to start learning that it’s okay to be autonomous. That not everyone is like Dylan. That I absolutely am not like him.

I don’t know if I scared her, hurt her feelings, or something else, but I need to smooth things over, so I put down the carton of ice cream in my hand and walk over to her.

“I didn’t mean to snap,” I say quietly, “but you’ve got to stop asking for permission. Contrary to the way you’ve been treated, you’re not a child.”

“I know. I just…” She pauses, her eyes fixating on all the things I’ve put on the counter. “Are you… are those… sprinkles ?” She says it like it’s a diamond or something.

“You like sprinkles, princess?”

“I haven’t had sprinkles in… forever.”

“I was about to make a hot fudge sundae. Do you want one?”

“I shouldn’t.” She chews her lip. “But I really do.”

“Then make yourself one.” I motion to everything that’s laid out. “I only have vanilla ice cream, but there’s everything else. Whipped cream, fudge, sprinkles, chopped walnuts, cherries—I can even slice up a banana if a banana split is more your style.”

She stares at the items on the counter, a mischievous smile on her lips. “I want…everything.”

I hand her a bowl and the ice cream scoop. “Have at it.”

She looks at me for a moment and then puts the smallest, saddest scoop of ice cream I’ve ever seen in her bowl.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I shake my head.

“Seriously? What the hell is that? A serving for a canary?” I pry the scoop from her hands and put two full clumps of ice cream in her bowl.

“Hudson!” She tries to protest, but I’m done with her being timid and shy and unsure. It’s time for her to break out of the emotional prison she’s been in and start living.

“Hush.” I add a little of everything and then spray some of the canned whipped cream on the top. It splatters everywhere, little specks painting her hoodie and even her cheek.

“Hey!” Without hesitation, she flicks the whipped cream with her fingers, shooting a glob in my direction. It settles on the bottom of my T-shirt, and for a split second, we both freeze. She seems shocked that she did something so bold, and I have to resist the urge to laugh.

I look at the whipped cream, which is now sliding down my front, and then narrow my eyes.

“I see how it is… this is how you want to do things? Because I’ll have you know I am a master at food fighting.”

Her face goes from horrified to playful in a heartbeat.

She snatches the whipped cream can from my hand and squirts it full force onto my chest.

“Now it’s on.” I dig my fingers into the bowl of sprinkles and flick a handful in her direction, getting them in her hair, her clothes, and—my housekeeper is going to kill me—all over the floor.

“Don't come any closer!” she yells, holding out the can of whipped cream like a weapon. “I have whipped cream, and I’m not afraid to use it!”

I grab the nearby banana and hold it out. “En garde!”

We have a playful fencing match with our blades of choice, but then she gets close enough to squirt at me and she takes full advantage, catching me in the face.

Since I’m half-blind, I grab for the bowl of sprinkles and fling them in her general direction. She squeals, dancing out of reach around the island, intermittently shooting globs of whipped cream at me any time I get close.

I wipe the whipped cream out of my eyes and lick my lips. “Delicious—but you’re still gonna get it!” I pick up a handful of vanilla ice cream, to the extent that I can, and take three long steps, wiping it in her hair.

“Eeek!” She screams with laughter, trying to wiggle away but I’ve trapped her between my body and the island.

Our bodies are close and for a moment everything stops.

I feel the heat, see her chest rising and falling, and it’s hard to stop myself from touching her.

I stare down into her beautiful face, which is now rosy from laughter and exertion, and wonder how anyone could ever want to hurt this sweet, playful, and gorgeous woman?

Her lips part as she gazes up at me.

Fuck .

That’s an invitation to kiss someone if I ever saw one.

But I’m conflicted.

I don’t want to scare her off.

This is supposed to be her safe space. Where she doesn’t have to worry about doing anything she doesn’t want to do. Where no one hurts her.

And for the first time in my life, I’m not sure if I can—or should—make a move.

Before I can decide, the doorbell rings and I scowl in irritation.

“Fuck.” I grab my phone and pull up the doorbell camera. “It’s my sister.”

“Shit.” She backs away, grabbing a handful of paper towels and dabbing them in her hair.

“I’ll get rid of her. Go on up to your room and try to stay quiet.”

“O-okay.” She looks panicked as she practically races out of the room and up the stairs.

Dammit, Briar.

I take a couple of seconds to get the worst of the whipped cream off my face and shirt, and then look around at the mess.

I’m going to have a hell of a time explaining this. I quickly stuff my bowl—the empty one—into the dishwasher and then head for the front door.

“Hey. What are you doing here?” I’m probably a lot less friendly than I should be with my sister.

“Uncle Dash! I missed you!” Frankie vaults herself in my direction, and I bend to pick her up before she can hit my legs. The hip is doing great, but I don’t need anyone hitting me full force, even someone as small as she is.

“Hey, tater tot.” I kiss her head. “What are you guys doing here?”

“We came to visit!” Frankie announces firmly.

“I just saw you on Sunday.” I glance at Briar. “You could have called.”

“You always tell me not to come,” she says, breezing past me.

“You're sticky,” Frankie says, wrinkling her nose as she wiggles to get down.

“I had a little whipped cream accident,” I say.

“A little whipped cream accident?” Briar, of course, heads straight for the kitchen and she’s now gaping at me, arms folded across her chest. “What the hell happened in here?”