Beautiful Collide (Saints Of Redville #3)

Chapter 66

66

Molly

I wish I could just take a sick day.

But no, instead of taking a nap like I want to, I’m working despite my throbbing headache.

Okay, maybe I’m not working, but I am checking emails.

I’m halfway through answering one when I hear a noise. I can’t make out what it is, though, from where I’m sitting on the couch. It kind of reminds me of the chaos before a game, just not as loud. And less swearing.

Another series of shouts happens.

This is ridiculous already.

Either my neighbors are throwing an impromptu block party or it’s the end of the world. Honestly, with how my life is going currently, either is a strong possibility.

I stand up from the couch and head for the window.

Once the blinds are pulled back, my eyes go wide.

Holy shit.

There are a few people there.

What the hell is going on?

Gas leak. There’s got to be a gas leak, right?

Shit. Why didn’t an alarm go off, and why am I still standing here?

I need to evacuate. But no . . . instead, I’m standing here because I most likely have a faulty monitor and will die.

Yeah, that sounds about right.

I am a hex, after all.

My eyes narrow. What is that? Are they holding something? Are those cameras?

Okay, so maybe the building isn’t being evacuated.

Oh, I know, they must be filming a movie. In Redville. Yeah, I think not. The biggest celebrity we have here is Hudson Wilde, which says a lot. Typically, reporters don’t follow hockey players around.

Wait, shit, are those reporters? No. That’s ridiculous.

Please say they aren’t.

Why would reporters be outside my building?

My stomach twists. What if it’s me?

No. Totally not. That’s ridiculous.

No one knows about Hudson and you.

It has to be something else.

My nose scrunches as I think.

I know some athletes live in the building, but no one who would garner this much attention.

Hmm.

Yeah, I doubt that’s it. It’s not like some star quarterback secretly moved in and decided to hold a press conference on the sidewalk.

My best guess would be a movie, but that doesn’t make sense either. If it were someone really famous, like an actor, there would be more press than this. This looks more local.

What the hell is happening?

My chest tightens, and I step back from the window like they can see me from all the way up here.

Not that they are looking for me, but still. No one wants to be the poor idiot caught on camera as collateral damage. Like the time my neighbor left her patio door open, and a raccoon destroyed her apartment. I wouldn’t necessarily call that newsworthy, but here in Redville, it apparently was.

My phone buzzes on the counter, and I snatch it up, barely glancing at the screen before answering.

“Dane, if this is about—”

“Ms. Sinclair, don’t go outside.”

I double-check the number, realizing it’s not Dane. It’s Sean, one of the guys on the Saints security team. I’ve talked to him twice. Once when Dane first came to the team and didn’t know which entrance to use. And another time when he got into a fender bender half a mile from the arena.

“Sean? What is going on?” I grip the phone tighter. Why can’t I leave? Is there a murderer on the loose? That would explain the commotion. But not why Sean, of all people, called me.

“Take a breath, Sinclair,” he reminds me, and for some reason, I listen, calming a bit. “Some reporter said something about you and Hudson—”

I freeze. “What about me and Hudson?”

“That you’re married.”

Married .

The word hits me like a slap in the face. My pulse spikes, and my hands become clammy around the phone.

I can’t breathe. This makes no sense.

Did I hear that right?

“How—how would they even know that?” I stammer.

“I’m not sure.”

“This doesn’t make sense. How do they know?” I repeat more to myself than to him.

“I don’t have any details. I just know your brother and Hudson spoke to the media team after the press conference, then asked me to secure your home. I’m out of town, but I’ll be there with a team to guard the place in two hours if you can manage until then.”

“Press conference.” The words echo in my skull. “As in the press conference I skipped because of my headache? That press conference?”

“I suppose?” Of course, he wouldn’t know. I don’t talk to him. “Local reporters are all over the story. The team hasn’t confirmed anything to them, but Hudson—”

“What did Hudson say?” I interrupt, my pulse racing.

“He didn’t deny it. The PR team shut the conference down before he could say much, but it’s too late. It’s everywhere.”

I sink onto the couch, my knees weak. Married . “It’s everywhere? As in the internet? Social media?” This is awful.

“Ms. Sinclair, are you okay?” His voice is softer now.

I nod, even though he can’t see me. “Yeah,” I say, my voice hollow. “I’m fine.”

“Or would you prefer if I call you Mrs. Wilde?”

Holy crap.

He’s serious.

The severity of how my life is about to change hits me at once, and my knees buckle. I fall onto my couch, winded.

“Molly is fine.” My voice is steadier than I feel. “I’ll text you the security code to my apartment.”

What I want to say is this is my problem, and I’ll deal with it. That I need to learn to be strong, but I don’t. Obviously, Dane and Hudson sent him my way.

God. Dane.

What is he thinking right now?

He must hate me.

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line as I hear another car honk.

“Works for me. Molly.” I hear his turn signal flick on. “Call me if you need anything. And don’t talk to the press.”

“I won’t.”

I end the call before he can say anything else.

I just stare blankly at the wall as the weight of everything sinks in. My mind races. Married. Hudson. Reporters . How did my life become this?

The questions they’re going to ask, the judgment that’s bound to follow—it’s too much. Typically, reporters don’t care too much about professional hockey players’ private lives, but this isn’t any hockey player. It’s Hudson Wilde.

The press loves him and all the crazy antics he gets into, and now I’m one of them. Leave it to me to find the one hockey player with twenty-four-hour media coverage.

My phone buzzes again, and this time, it’s a text from Hudson.

This day just keeps getting better.

Hudson: By the looks of things, I’ll assume you heard the news.

Molly: Yep.

Hudson: I’m coming over.

Molly: No.

Hudson: Too bad.

I groan, throwing my phone onto the couch. Of course, Hudson is coming over. He also probably thinks he can fix it with his signature charm and a well-placed smirk.

I barely have time to process what just happened before there’s a knock on the door. Jeez, how fast did he drive? Or was he already on the way here? Unless it’s not him and it’s a reporter instead.

My heart leaps, and I scramble off the couch, peering through the peephole.

It’s him. Duh. I knew this already.

Real smooth, Molly.

I fling the door open, and my heart starts to race.

There he is—Hudson Wilde in all his tall, obnoxiously sexy glory. He’s trying to blend in—like he could ever do that—wearing a ball cap pulled low over his eyes and a leather jacket.

“Hey.” His low and steady voice makes butterflies swarm in my belly.

“What are you doing here?” I cross my arms to keep my hands from shaking from the nerves of the day. Having my secret—our secret—out is a lot to handle. Now, what do we do?

“Saving you,” he says simply, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

I blink, caught off guard by his calmness. How can he be so at peace right now? I’m a hot mess, shaking like a leaf, barely able to function. “Saving me from what?” I play dumb. Maybe if I pretend it’s not happening, it won’t be.

“From the vultures downstairs,” he says, nodding toward the window. “It’s a madhouse out there.”

“I noticed,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “How did they even find out?”

“Good question.” His jaw tightens. “But right now, the how doesn’t matter. We just need to get you out of here.”

“Out of here?” He stands tall in front of me, like a knight in shining armor, ready to rescue me. It makes my heart do stupid things like hope . “To where?”

“My place,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Isn’t that going to be just as bad?” I ask.

“I have better security. Let’s go.”

I shake my head. “Hudson, I can’t—”

“You can.” His voice is firm. “Unless you want to stay here and deal with that.”

He gestures toward the window, and I glance outside again. The crowd has grown, reporters fighting for a better position to get the shot. Their cameras are aimed at my building, at my apartment, to be exact. This is bad. My stomach flips, and I look back at Hudson, my resolve crumbling.

“Fine.” I nod. I could pretend to be strong, but there’s no point. I’m basically lost at sea, and he’s offering me a life preserver. “But how are we supposed to get past them?”

He grins, and for the first time since I noticed the crowd outside my window, I feel a flicker of something that isn’t panic.

“Leave that to me.” The damn smirk that makes me stupid appears on his face.

Head in the game, Molly. This is not the time to look at him like you want to—

“Stop looking at me like that, Hex. Or we’ll give the reporters a real show.” Welp. That does it. All impure thoughts are officially knocked out of my head.

“Let’s just go.” I roll my eyes, but there’s no hate there. Not anymore.

Five minutes later, I’m standing in the hallway, wearing a hoodie and a pair of sunglasses he produced from his jacket pocket.

“This is your plan?” I ask, tugging the hoodie tighter around me.

“Trust me,” he says, adjusting his cap. “I’ve dealt with the press enough to know how to dodge them. Just stay close and keep your head down.”

“Great,” I mutter. “I feel so reassured.”

He rests a hand lightly on my back as he leads me toward the elevator. “Relax, Molly. I’ve got you.”

It’s tense in the elevator ride, and my heart is pounding by the time we reach the lobby. Hudson steps out first, scanning the crowd outside the glass doors before pulling me to his side.

“Ready?” His voice is so low I can barely hear him.

“No.” I follow him anyway. I have no other choice, and the truth is, if I have to face the press, there is no one else I would feel comfortable doing it with. Not even Dane.

The moment we step outside, the reporters pounce.

“Hudson. Is it true you’re married to Molly Sinclair?”

“Molly, how long have you been seeing Hudson?”

“Was the wedding planned or was it spontaneous?”

“Hudson, what does Dane think about all this?”

Damn.

They are relentless.

I’ve been with the team for years and have never seen anything like this. Sure, there was that blip with Aiden, but even that was controlled. Nothing like this. That was one lone reporter out to get him. This is something else entirely.

I keep my head down, my sunglasses hiding my eyes as I cling to Hudson’s arm. His presence is solid and steady, and he doesn’t say a word as we push through the crowd.

Got to hand it to him. He has a way of comforting me like no one else can. Walking through these animals, I actually feel safe with him. Does that mean something? Yeah, I think it does. What? I’m not sure, and I’m not ready to broach that topic, but I know it does.

“Hudson, over here!” one of them shouts, shoving a microphone toward his face.

He turns, his expression cool and unreadable. “No comment.”

“But—”

“No comment,” he repeats, his hand dropping to wrap tightly around my waist.

The reporters continue their shouting.

With each step we take, they become more persistent, but Hudson doesn’t stop.

Instead, with his head held high and his arm wrapped around me, he leads me to his car.

When we get to it, he opens the passenger door for me like a gentleman.

I’ve never wanted to admit it, but he’s not a bad guy.

He’s actually a pretty fabulous guy.

“Hex, get in.” His voice sounds tight. My guess is he’s super pissed and trying to not give the press a show.

I do as he says, and he closes the door behind me before rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s seat.

As we pull away from the chaos, I finally let out the breath I’ve been holding.

He glances over at me. Our eyes lock. “You okay?”

I nod even though I’m not.

My heart pounds in my chest. “Thanks.”

“For what?” he asks.

“Helping me.”

He didn’t have to, and I appreciate him.

He shrugs before turning to face the road. “It’s my job.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t deserve it, but thank you.”

The car goes quiet. It’s almost like my words shut him up.

I pivot in my seat and watch him.

He’s looking forward, hands on the steering wheel.

His jaw is set, and it’s almost like he didn’t hear me, but then I see a slight twitch.

He did, and my words affected him.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and loaded. Finally, I can’t take it anymore, needing to say so much and not willing to wait.

I bury my head in my hands. “Now what?”

He sighs. “Honestly, no clue.”

I shake my head. “This is a disaster.”

“Maybe, but it doesn’t have to be.”

“You really think we’ll be okay?” I ask, my voice small.

The car rolls to a stop at the light, and he looks at me. “I know we will.”

I almost believe him.