Page 20

Twenty

Willow

The drive back to Hudson’s house is silent.

Tense. And silent.

“Thank you,” I murmur to Ty and Chuck, Hudson’s men who came with us to provide backup, as they carry in the suitcase and box of my father’s things.

“Breathe easy, Willow,” Ty murmurs, his big dark eyes gentle as they lock onto mine. “We’ve got your back.”

I want to ask why.

Why these gentle giants of men—Ty and Chuck, Atlas and Hudson, Royal and Banks—have my back when for so many years the men in this industry have chewed me up and spit me out.

But I don’t.

Because Hudson doesn’t come close when he strides into the house several moments later, doesn’t gently sweep my hair off my shoulder like he has been doing the last week or so, doesn’t find some excuse to lightly touch my hand or back, doesn’t even smile at me.

Instead, he walks right by me and disappears into the kitchen.

I jump when a cabinet slams.

I just force a smile at them, snag the handle of my suitcase, tuck my dad’s box under my arm, and turn for the stairs.

“I can carry that up to your room for you,” Chuck says softly, his hand landing on top of mine, staying me when I would have lifted the suitcase.

I slip my hand free, still not completely comfortable with men who aren’t Hudson touching me. “I’m good,” I murmur. “But thank you.”

He studies me for a moment before he nods. “We’ll arm the alarm before we go.”

“Thank you,” I say again.

He turns to Ty. “Let’s go.”

Ty’s eyes flick to the kitchen, where Hudson disappeared, where there are more cabinets being opened and closed.

Firmly. Still bordering on slamming. Still rubbing the wrong way against my nerves, making me jumpy and nervous.

When they come back to mine there’s worry edging into the brown depths, but he just reaches into his pocket then passes me a card that looks identical to the one he gave Dylan.

“If you need anything else, feel free to call the office. Chuck and I are never far.”

I nod, murmur another “thanks,” and then I’m watching them slip out the front door, pausing to arm the alarm as promised. The lock whirs closed as Ty pushes a button on the keypad on the other side of the door.

Then I’m watching them walk away, disappear out of sight, and…

Silence falls.

But Hudson doesn’t come back out into the entryway.

Exhaling softly, I wrap my fingers around the handle of my suitcase, decide to give him space, and make my way slowly upstairs.

I’m not one hundred percent in fighting shape quite yet—cardio is the devil—so my pulse is speeding by the time I make it up the stairs and carry my stuff down the hall and into the guest bedroom.

Despite the newfound intimacy Hudson and I have had over the last week, I still have my stuff in the same room I’ve been occupying since I first began staying at Hudson’s.

I don’t know why it matters to me—to keep that distance—since we’ve been sleeping together in Hudson’s bed every night since that first time together, since we spend pretty much every minute of our waking hours practically glued together.

It just…feels like too big of a step to keep anything in his room.

Too new. Too presumptuous. Too much too soon.

So, I’ve been coming back here to get dressed.

And it’s where I unpack my suitcase, carefully organizing my clothes into the dresser drawers, but when I go to tuck the box of my dad’s belongings carefully into the closet, I sense movement behind me.

Hudson is standing in the open doorway, eyes on my—now empty—suitcase.

They flick over to me as I set the box on the shelf and stand up.

“What the hell is this?” he mutters.

My eyebrows drag together. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he snaps, moving toward me, “what are you doing putting your shit in the guest bedroom?”

I blink.

Then again.

“This is my room,” I begin.

“Is it?” he growls.

“I—”

“Because it sure as shit hasn’t been since the moment you climbed on top of me, princess.”

More blinking.

“I was trying not to overstep.”

“I’ve been inside you. I’ve kissed every inch of you.” He’s close now, near enough for me to see the flash of anger in his eyes. “I think we’re well beyond overstepping, don’t you?”

“I—” But I can’t bring myself to agree with that, can’t think too closely about that, or else I’ll panic. Getting in this deep after Dylan? Insanity. And yet…it’s Hudson, so I’m not exactly fighting the pull.

All of that is a whirlwind.

One I can’t allow to take over.

So, I change the subject.

“You were mad on the drive home and downstairs.”

“Yes,” he agrees.

When he doesn’t say anything else, I add, “You’re mad about Dylan.”

His eyes flash again and he steps closer. “Of course I’m mad about that asshole. He’s an arrogant prick who hurt you, who tried to control you, right in fucking front of me, and who had your staff looking at you as though you’re a criminal.”

“I have a record.” Or a juvenile one, anyway.

Hudson’s expression turns to granite. “That doesn’t give them—or him—the right to treat you like shit.” He moves closer, extends an arm?—

And I don’t know if it was because I just saw Dylan or because I don’t completely understand his mood. I don’t know if it’s the anger or the fierce lines hewn into his face. I don’t know if it’s just old habits brought to the surface.

But when he reaches toward me…

I flinch.

He freezes. I freeze, my insides tightening with horror.

“Christ, baby,” he growls, his eyes flashing again, but this time with bone-deep hurt, “don’t you know who I am by now?”

“I—”

“Fuck it.” Shoving a hand through his hair, he spins on his heel, calls over his shoulder, “Do what you want. I have work to do.”

I open my mouth again, trying to explain, trying to apologize .

But I don’t get the chance.

He’s already gone.

Hudson doesn’t come home, and when the sun has set and my worry has ratcheted itself up to a hundred, I finally pull out my cell and hit the button to call Briar.

If anyone should understand Hudson, it’s his sister.

She picks up on the second ring, the background so loud I actually hold my phone away from my ear. “Willow, hi. Just give me a second to move somewhere quiet.”

“I can call back if this is a bad time.”

“No,” she says, the sounds slowly fading. “Royal, Jade, and Frankie are having a jam session, and while I love my baby girl and Royal and Jade—” I hear whoosh and then a click and the noise completely disappears. “I would sell my soul if I could have one evening of quiet.”

Despite the worry knotting my insides, I find myself smiling. “I’m happy to babysit,” I say. “Give you that quiet.”

A blip of silence.

But before I can withdraw the offer—of course she doesn’t want a former mess of a child star with a dangerous ex to watch precious Frankie—she speaks.

“You’re so incredibly nice, Willow. With all the shit you went through, how did that happen?”

My throat is tight. “I?—”

“And be careful what you offer,” she says lightly. “Because I’m one more rendition of ‘Old MacDonald’ away from leaving the country.”

“Is Royal teaching her anything else?”

“Yes, thank God.” She sighs. “Now we just need to convince her to play them—luckily Jade is on the case, and considering how much Frankie loves her, I hope my daughter will have a new repertoire before they leave tonight.”

I giggle.

“Now, I’m sorry I hijacked the conversation. Did you need something or were you just calling to chat?”

“I…” My throat gets tight again, but she’s patient, giving me a long time to get my words together.

When I don’t manage to, her question is gentle, “Is this about the crap in the news? Atlas and Madeline are pissed, and them being pissed means that things are going to get done. This is all going to be over soon.”

That’s nice.

Really nice she’s saying that. Really nice she’s taking the time to reassure me.

And it unsticks me.

“I messed up.”

“It’s not your fault your ex?—”

“With Hudson.”

There’s a moment of surprised silence then Briar gently asks, “How?”

I explain how we went back to my house, the confrontation with Dylan, Hudson’s sour mood. “And then he reached for me and I flinched.”

“Oh, honey,” she whispers.

“I hurt him,” I whisper back. “I didn’t mean to. I just…everything was fresh and I haven’t seen him mad like that. And it’s my fault.”

“Honey,” she says again, still gentle. “None of this is your fault. Dash is…” She sighs. “Did he talk to you about Colt?”

I nod, though she can’t see me. “Yes,” I say. “I’m sorry you guys lost him. He sounded like a really great guy.”

There’s another moment of silence and this time it’s tinged with sadness.

“Yes,” she finally says. “It was a hard loss for all of us.” She exhales and seems to snap out of that melancholy. “But it was hardest for Dash. He and Colt were tighter than the rest, part of it was because they were deployed together, but part of it is because they just…gelled, you know?”

“Yeah,” I murmur.

“So, when Colt enlisted for a final tour without talking to Dash—even though they’d agreed they were done—Dash was hurt.

But when Colt didn’t come back…” Her voice breaks.

“I thought we’d lose him too. He was undone.

He wasn’t there to watch Colt’s back. If he had been…

then things would have been different. What he thinks,” she adds.

“Not any of us. Colt was stubborn and proud and what happened was a terrible tragedy. But none of that was my brother’s fault. ”

My eyes burn.

Because he shared.

But not that.

“No,” I agree, “it wasn’t.”

“Unfortunately, my brother isn’t exactly known for being flexible.”

My mouth curves up at that.

But she’s still talking and the next words take my breath away.

“The man I saw at Sunday Dinner wasn’t the Dash of the last four years,” she says softly, and my pulse begins to pick up its pace.

“He’s been lost, honey. Lost and alone and sometimes so impenetrable I feared I’d never get my brother back. ”

That makes my heart hurt, so freaking much. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Briar whispers. “But you need to know that you brought him back, sweetheart. He was our Dash again, and that’s because of you.

The way he looked at you, the jokes he made, the laughter and care and lightness in him—even though all that you’re both dealing with is so heavy—that’s not the closed-off man who’s been here the last few years.

God, that mess you two made in the kitchen alone was enough proof of that?—”

“He started it,” I blurt.

She laughs, which was my intention. Because her voice was watery and it was making my throat go tight again and…

I don’t want her to be sad.

“I bet he did,” she says, still laughing. “And I’m so damned glad he was himself enough to do it.”

I suck in a breath.

“So, you didn’t mess up, honey. He’s a protector, through and through, and hates what you endured. But he’s not mad at you—not really.”

He’s mad at Dylan.

And that I was hurt.

“I know,” I say and I mean it. “I just…he’s been so great. I hate that I hurt him, even a little bit.”

“Because you’re a good person.”

Stated so matter-of-factly that it penetrates deep, settles right around my heart.

I’ve always heard how bad I am, how incapable, how pathetic. But not good. Never good.

And yet, this wonderful woman states it so easily.

Maybe that’s why I can believe it.

But even as I’m accepting that, I know it’s not just Briar’s statement. It’s Hudson. His faith, his patience, his kindness, all working together to make it so I can hold those words close, can tuck them inside me and keep them safe.

“You are too,” I murmur.

We’re both quiet for a couple of seconds but then I hear Frankie’s voice in the background.

“Your moment of quiet is over?” I ask lightly.

A beleaguered sigh—but it’s filled with amusement. “Apparently.”

“Before you go,” I say. “I did have just one more question…”