Page 12

Twelve

Willow

I swipe at my hair, hearing the clink clink clink of sprinkles hitting the sink and counter and sigh, knowing I’ve made a huge mistake.

Hudson’s kitchen…

Oh, it’s a mess.

And he’s going to be mad ?—

“No,” I whisper, eyes flicking up to the mirror.

He’d be mad if I thought that.

If I believed that.

Because he’s annoyed when I cower, when I ask if it’s okay to eat something or go to bed or shower or wash my hair or…well, any of the things Dylan used to demand I ask permission for.

He doesn’t get it.

I sigh again.

I guess I don’t really get it either—even though I lived it.

How I let myself get ensnared so deeply. How I allowed myself to be made so small.

So pathetic.

I stare at my reflection, at my pale blue eyes, my blond hair.

I’m objectively beautiful—something I know because I’ve seen my face blown up on a huge movie screen, large enough to dissect any flaws, to understand that mine add to the allure.

It’s something I know because I’ve seen the comments on social media, heard the red carpet interviewers dish about my body and face from the time I was a child.

A beauty.

Could be a model.

Are there people who think I’m hideous? Probably (no, definitely —something I also saw plenty of on social media). But they’re trolls, people who live to tear others down.

I don’t care what they think.

Because all I do care about is what Hudson thinks when he looks at me.

Does he see that beauty?

Or does he only look at me with pity, with sympathy, maybe even with derision?

I won the genetic lottery, but I definitely won’t be winning any awards when it comes to growing a spine.

Pathetic teenage TV & movie star.

Pathetic adult—and I mean that strictly in the sense of being over eighteen—television & film star.

Sure, I have a pretty face and a great body…but I want him to see me for me .

“Ugh,” I mutter, dropping my hands to the counter, dislodging more sprinkles in rapid plinks that hit the granite, the tile. “ I don’t even know who the hell I am, how can I possibly ask Hudson to see the real me?”

Unable to hold my gaze in the mirror—or witness the accusation in my own eyes—I focus on getting cleaned up.

I’m sticky, covered in whipped cream, the sprinkles he threw at me leaving little trails of color on my skin, my hair, my clothes.

Then, somehow, I find myself smiling.

His face when I tagged him with the whipped cream?—

Shocked.

I’d braced, unable not to brace, but a second later his eyes lit up and the sprinkle attack began and…

I had fun.

Fun.

Something I’d forgotten existed.

Because my life has been work—working by learning my lines, working by training to be a ballerina or learning how to ride a horse or being taught how to handle a sword, working to be exactly what the director wants.

And then working on the actual set during filming—being punctual, showing up clean-faced and ready for hair and makeup at my call time, those lines memorized and ready, giving something back to my co-stars during our scenes so we can create quality projects, being polite to the crew because they’re the real heroes, taking critiques, focusing on the positives while promoting the project.

I love acting, even though sometimes it has felt like a millstone hanging heavy around my neck, a prison framed as a gilded cage as much as it is a way to live a thousand different lives.

But the craft, the process, the excitement of turning on the TV and seeing something I’m proud of, going to a premiere with my contemporaries and knowing when it’s a good one, seeing it top the box office?

That’s a high that’s better than any drug I’ve ever taken.

Dylan gave me that.

The carrot and the stick.

I groan softly, wet a towel, and set to work on those tiny rainbows on my face and hair and clothes from the sprinkles, the sticky streaks on my hands and arms from the whipped cream.

Eventually, I realize I’m making more of a mess at the sink and slip into the shower.

Sprinkles on the floor, swirls of color going down the drain, tangling with suds from my shampoo.

But it’s not until the loofa is trailing over my body that my mind drifts back to the kitchen…

God, that had been fun.

A mess and I don’t love the prospect of having to dry my hair—there’s enough of it that the going full finger-in-the-light-socket tresses by air drying is tempting—but by God…

It had been fun.

Hudson smiling as he launched sprinkles.

His laughter as I threatened him with my weapon of choice—that can of whipped cream.

He moved like someone who hasn’t just had surgery.

He moved with power and grace and?—

I still got him with the whipped cream.

My cheeks hurt and I lift a hand, realize that I’m smiling and must have been doing it for a while.

Something else that I almost forgot how to do.

A natural smile, not one carefully curated for the screen or for Dylan.

One that fades as I turn off the shower, snag a towel, and wrap it around me.

Because I’m back in another moment.

Hudson’s big, strong body close, almost touching mine, his eyes filling with heat.

I wanted him to bend down, to close the distance between our mouths, to kiss me.

God, I had wanted that so much.

Then the doorbell rang.

Fate intervening, preventing me from doing something stupid.

But even as that thought is crossing my mind, my hand is lifting, pressing lightly to my lips, feeling the tingle there, remembering how much more intense the sensation had been when his mouth was mere inches from mine.

Remembering that the tingle hadn’t just been in my mouth.

It had snaked down through my belly, trailed its fingers between my thighs.

What would I have done to chase that tingle?

Would I have lifted on tiptoe? Pressed my mouth to his?

Even as the questions cross my mind, I know I wouldn’t have been that brave.

And I wouldn’t have had to.

He would have.

And what would I have done with that?

Freaked out, panicking because the last time I kissed a man, it was Dylan and he’s…well, Dylan.

Stilled before defaulting into actor mode—tilting my head for the best angle, unconsciously seeking out the camera, careful to keep my tongue in my mouth and my hands precisely in the places we agreed upon with the intimacy coordinator.

Or…

Would I have just enjoyed it?

Like I had enjoyed the last week, soaking in all that makes Hudson Hudson —his kindness and protective nature, his generosity and the capable way he handles his business, the love in his voice when he speaks of Briar and Frankie and the rest of his family.

I hope it’s the latter.

Even as I know it would have likely been the first one.

“Ugh,” I mutter as I shove the thoughts from my head and finish toweling off then squeeze the excess water from my hair.

I pull out a pale blue dress I know I shouldn’t have bought—it’s unnecessary, impractical, and not even seasonally appropriate.

But I bought two pairs of jeans, a multipack of sweatpants, a hoodie, socks, underwear, and shoes when Hudson handed me his phone, his Amazon app open on the screen…

And then I saw the dress.

In my favorite color—Cinderella blue.

Simple but with the barest hint of glitter along the hem of the skirt.

Something that Dylan would have never let me purchase, let alone wear.

Fun and young and pretty and innocent and—a version of me I’ve never been.

I couldn’t resist.

I threw it in the cart, hit buy before I could talk myself out of it.

But after the way Hudson looked at me ten minutes ago in the kitchen, I want him to see me in this instead of the baggy sweats and hoodie I’ve been wearing around his house.

So, I don’t overthink it. I put on the dress, tie the pretty sash around my waist, and turn around.

Then gasp.

Because there’s an adorable little girl standing in my bedroom.

She waves and smiles. “Are you a princess?”