Page 28

Twenty-Eight

Willow

The best part of the last week was making waffles with Frankie and then dousing them in copious amounts of whipped cream and chocolate spread.

Then eating them, I suppose.

Because Frankie had gotten a whipped cream and chocolate mustache and Hudson had wiped it, oh so gently, off her upper lip.

Of course, that was after he’d done something that made me topple a little bit more in love with him—he’d given himself his own mustache. And Frankie’s resultant peals of laughter had sent me toppling head over heels for her too.

And then join in on the fun—with the laughter and the mustache.

Eventually, though, Briar returned from her business trip and reclaimed her daughter.

And Hudson continued his slow and measured return to work—mostly in the office, coordinating his men, but also some light protection detail in the field with his favorite long-time clients.

And me?

I’m still in his house.

Still waiting around for Atlas and Madeline to do their work.

Still relying on other people to make it safe for me to live my fucking life.

I grind my teeth together and try to shove down my frustration.

I manage it, but it’s getting harder with each day that passes—hell with each hour and minute that pass.

Because something needs to change. Because I need to figure out how to fill my days with anything that isn’t sitting around reading or learning to cook or exercising to continue getting my strength back.

All of those are good.

Productive.

But they’re not fulfilling me in any meaningful way.

I’m desperate to dig my teeth into a script, to fall into the study of a new character, to learn and train and become someone else—a single mom trying her best to provide for her kids, a superhero flying through space, the president, a morally gray heroine who isn’t afraid to kill for those under her protection.

Hell, I’d even take a sequel direct-to-streaming movie reuniting me with my childhood castmates.

And that would, quite literally, be hell.

But it would be better than this puttering around, day after day, searching for something meaningful, for a way to be useful, for?—

“Ugh!” I snap, dropping the mixing bowl into the sink and flicking on the water, rinsing out the remainder of the banana bread batter.

There are four loaves already.

That’s more than Hudson and I can eat, and though he’s been taking the leftovers of my baking endeavors to work, I’m sure the guys are going to get sick of the treats eventually.

Or maybe I’m just feeling grumpy.

Okay, maybe it’s both.

“Ugh,” I mutter again, cleaning the bowl and setting it on a towel on the counter to dry.

The bread is in the oven, the dishes are done, I’ve done my three miles on the treadmill, lifted tiny dumbbells—at least compared to the gargantuan ones that Hudson uses—in a series of exercises that my physical therapist recommended, and tried out a new recipe I found on Pinterest.

Such a full day.

Such a full life.

Ugh.

I clamp my teeth together so tightly a bolt of pain shoots through my jaw, and stand there, just breathing, for long minutes?—

For so long, in fact, that the timer for the banana bread goes.

I shake myself, pull out the loaves and leave them to cool then turn off the oven and do the only thing I can do.

Escape.

To the only place I can escape.

Hudson’s back yard.

The sun is shining and it’s a beautiful, sunshiney California day. Blue skies, not a cloud in sight. The breeze ruffles my hair but doesn’t chill—chilly isn’t something SoCal is known for. Hell, we get a quarter of an inch of rain and suddenly, it’s like people’s cars don’t work any longer.

Commutes get longer.

Traffic gets…traffickier.

Road rage gets…well, ragier .

But right now, I wish it was raining. Downpouring. Hailing. Dumping unusual and record-breaking snow on me. Anything except for the bright and cheerful sunshine that is the antithesis of my dour mood.

Spoiler alert: I don’t get my wish.

The sun slowly travels across the sky, the day warms even more, and…my mood doesn’t change.

I should have looked for the picture before I left Dylan’s and my house.

I should have.

And now not only am I anchorless, without a path forward, I’m also stuck in this holding pattern, imagining the silver frame dented and dirtied, the glass cracked, small shards escaping and tumbling to the floor, the picture of my dad and I scratched, damaged, or worse…

Torn into a million pieces.

I know I’m being ridiculous. It’s just a picture and I have no control over its fate, over what Dylan has decided to do to it. Further that, the image is mine, committed to memory, held deep in my heart.

He can destroy it and I’d still have the memory. Because he can take a lot of things from me—has taken almost everything—but I’m still here.

Still breathing.

Still living?—

“Ugh,” I mutter again.

Because is that what this is?

Locked in a tower, hiding from the world, from Dylan, from the press. Sitting here and doing nothing while other people move heaven and earth for me.

Ugh!

I pace through the back yard, around the pool, resisting the urge to kick at one of the loungers when my angry, unaware strides bring me in contact with it. But that will only hurt my foot.

The way my luck is going, I’ll likely break a toe, and then where will I be?

But even though I resist the urge to do that kicking, my anger doesn’t fade. I’m just…so damned angry, as though a lifetime of frustrations is threatening to burst free at any moment. Shoved down time and again, so hard that I forgot it existed.

And now…

It’s like I can’t keep the lid on it.

Like the rage is boiling up and over and?—

My pacing is abruptly halted by a tree branch catching my hair, yanking me to a halt.

“Ow!” I growl, wrenching a hand through my hair to free it and kicking out at the offending tree’s trunk. “ Ugh! ” I yell, kicking at it again. “UGH!”

“I’m impressed by the power of your kicks, princess,” I hear, “but want to clue me in as to what the poor, innocent tree did to you?”

I still, red-hot embarrassment scorching through me.

Hudson’s hand settles lightly on my shoulder, carefully turning me toward him. He crouches a little, his gaze holding mine, and then he proves how wonderful he is because he doesn’t hesitate to pull me into his arms, hugging me tight.

The man gives the best hugs.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper long moments later.

“For what?” he whispers back.

“For being angry for no reason.”

He leans away from me, one big hand lifting and cupping my jaw. “You absolutely have a reason— reasons —to be angry, princess. And I’m glad you’re letting it out now.”

“It’s like I have this well of rage in me,” I whisper. “One that’s been shoved down again and again and again .” I close my eyes, exhale. “I’m alive and safe and privileged. I shouldn’t be angry, especially when so many people are working to help me.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You don’t have to justify yourself. You’ve been through hell, been taken advantage of, and you’re stuck here in a holding pattern until things shake out.

Of course you’re upset. And I like that you’re angry—that tells me you’re finally starting to process all the things you’ve been through, the bad shit that’s been done to you.

Because any normal person would be pissed, baby. Not just accepting.”

I release a shaky breath.

“So let that rage come, let that anger loose. Don’t keep it locked inside where it’s just going to continue to eat at you.”

“It scares me,” I admit.

“We’ll take it on together.”

No hesitation. Not in his words. Not in his eyes.

Just laid out there, same as I know, without a doubt, that he would lay down his life for me.

I love him.

The thought doesn’t bring fear to my heart—and likely, it should. But it doesn’t.

Because it’s just…a forgone conclusion.

So, I don’t pull back.

I melt against him, wrap my arms around him in turn, and sigh softly, soaking him in. “Thank you,” I murmur.

He pulls back, cups my jaw again. “No thanks needed. Not ever,” he adds when I start to protest.

“Stubborn.”

His mouth kicks up. “Of course I am. Now”—he jerks his head toward the back door—“want to get out of here?”

I blink. “Out of where?”

“The house.”

Another blink. “I thought I couldn’t?—”

He grins. “Actually,” he says. “I just realized I have the perfect place.”