Beautiful Collide (Saints Of Redville #3)

Chapter 71

71

Hudson

An hour later, we’re back in the house. We still have to unpack before bed, but since I’m not ready to call it a night, I decide to show Molly around a bit.

The impromptu tour isn’t just for her. It’s for me too.

I want to see her eyes when I tell her the stories of this place. When I share my memories with her, will she get it? Will she understand how much this house means to me?

How much I want her to feel like she belongs here?

I hope so.

I lead her into the living room first. Unable to resist a little drama, I give the summary with all the flair of a teen at drama camp. “The living room,” I announce, sweeping my arm like I’m unveiling something grand. “Where many a family movie night went down and where my dad once fell asleep during Home Alone and woke up convinced burglars were breaking into the house.”

She laughs, the sound warm and effortless, and I can’t help but grin. “Sounds like fun,” she says.

“The stories I can tell.” I point to a dent in the wood floor. “That’s from when Anna tried to skate . . . with skates on.”

Her mouth drops open. “In the house?”

“Yep. Let’s just say Mom was pissed.”

“I bet.” Molly laughs so hard, I can’t help but laugh too.

It’s not just a house to her anymore, and that matters to me more than I expected it to.

Next, we head to the kitchen.

“I know this isn’t a new room, but a tour isn’t a tour unless I tell you a story in each room.”

“Is that so?” she teases.

“It is.” I point my hand to the oven. “For example, that’s where I accidentally set a fire and almost burned down the house.”

Molly gasps.

“Don’t worry. We put it out.”

“You think?” She rolls her eyes.

I run a hand along the counter as I talk. “This is where Mom makes the magic happen. Her cinnamon rolls are legendary. One time, Mason tried to bribe her into making them for the whole team. Maybe you’ll get lucky, and she’ll make some while you’re here.” I throw in a wink.

“Did it work?” she asks.

“Of course it did,” I reply with a laugh. “Mom can’t resist feeding people. But Mason had to help clean the barn in exchange. He lasted ten minutes before he bailed. Pun intended.”

Her laughter fills the kitchen, and I feel a swell of pride. I don’t know what it is about making her laugh, but it feels like winning a game in overtime. Like I’d do anything just to hear it again.

After a quick stop in the dining room, where I point out the chair I broke when I was ten trying to pull off an “epic dive,” we head upstairs. The air feels quieter up here, more personal. She’s walking through memories I haven’t shared with anyone in a long time.

We stop in the hallway, and I gesture to my door. “Obviously, you know that’s my room.”

“Hard to miss the hockey shrine when I first walked in there,” she says dryly, her eyes sparkling as she gestures to the posters and trophies lining the walls.

“Hey, those were my glory days,” I say, feigning offense.

She rolls her eyes but smiles anyway, and I feel like I’m fourteen again, trying to impress someone I like. God, I’m pathetic. But also? I kind of don’t care.

“And this,” I say, stopping in front of the door across the hall, “is Anna’s room.”

I push the door open, and she peeks inside. The bright and cheerful room is full of books, art supplies, and Anna’s signature chaos. Photos and postcards cover the corkboard on the wall, a patchwork of her life.

“She’s the artistic one in the family.” That is obvious from the state of her room. But I still point out a sketch pad on her desk. “Always painting or drawing something.”

“That’s amazing,” Molly says, turning to look at me.

“She’s amazing,” I say simply because it’s true. “Sometimes she’s a pain in the ass, of course, but I love her.”

We head back into the hallway. “Now, where is this craft room?”

I’m sure it’s obvious to Molly that there is no craft room, or at least there never was. Neither one of us is in any denial that something was up with my mother.

I’m curious to see what her play is. I’m pretty sure I know, but seeing and thinking are too different things.

I point at the door across from mine. “So, this is it, the famous craft room,” I say, pushing open the door to what used to be the guest room.

Molly steps in behind me, her arms crossed. I pivot to look at her and bite back a laugh.

I can practically hear her thoughts as she surveys the mess inside. The twin bed is shoved haphazardly against one wall.

Yeah, no one is buying this, Mom.

If the bed’s location isn’t bad enough, the mattress is leaning slightly off the frame.

She didn’t even bother to make this look believable.

The “sewing machine”—that’s the main reason she needed this room for her crafts after all—sits on a tiny folding table dead center in the middle of the room, like anyone will believe it belongs there.

This is ridiculous.

I love my mom, but she’s gone too far this time.

A pile of fabric in colors ranging from baby pink to blinding neon green is thrown on the floor in a pile.

That must have taken her one minute to set up. And for the final selling point, someone crammed an old rocking chair into the corner of the room right next to a stack of yarn that looks like it might collapse at any moment.

I turn to face Molly because I need to see her reaction to my mother’s treachery.

Molly’s mouth twitches, and I know she’s trying not to laugh. “Wow. This is some craft room.”

I run a hand through my hair, trying to hide my grin. “It’s been like this for years .”

“Years?” Molly echoes, clearly amused. “My best guess is it looks like she converted this room this morning.”

“You don’t say.” There is no hiding the sarcasm in my voice. Not that I’m trying.

Molly picks up a piece of fabric before setting it back down. “Right. A total coincidence that the room is packed with so much stuff there’s barely enough space to breathe, let alone sleep.”

Mom is a diabolical genius. That’s for sure.

“Exactly.” I lean against the doorframe. “Completely unrelated to the fact that she wants us to share a room.”

Molly gives me a look. It’s a cross between half amused and half exasperated. “Your mom is a mastermind, isn’t she?”

“She’s something all right.”

“Two words come to mind.” She laughs. “Lovely and funny.”

“Yeah, let’s go with that,” I say with a chuckle. “She’s definitely determined.”

Molly shakes her head, glancing around the room one last time. “Well, I guess that settles it. The guest room’s out of the question.”

“Guess so.” I push off the doorframe. “Come on. Let’s get you settled in my room.”

We step into my old bedroom, and I suddenly feel like I’m fifteen again, awkward and unsure of what to say.

Despite having an active social life in high school, I never brought a girl home. Which makes my mom’s meddling even funnier.

I watch Molly surveying the room for the second time as though she thought the hour outside would change the fact that there still is only one tiny twin bed for us to share.

At least the bed still sits in the corner. That way, we have a wall to lean on so no one falls off the bed when we sleep.

It still looks the same as when I lived here.

Nothing has changed.

Not the navy blue comforter.

Or the hockey posters lining the walls.

This is so embarrassing.

There is literally a signed poster of a player I idolized as a kid.

Can this get any worse?

Why yes, it can.

Trophies and medals still line the shelves.

It’s a shrine to my childhood.

I watch Molly as she takes it all in. She stops at the desk, where a photo of Anna and me sits. We’re both grinning like idiots, holding up a snowman we built in the backyard one winter.

“This is so . . . you.” Molly smirks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She glances at me, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t know. It’s just . . . it feels like stepping into your head. It’s kind of nice.”

“Nice?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “I was going for impressive.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sorry, there is nothing impressive about that.” She points her finger toward the bed, making me laugh.

“Touché.”

Molly walks over to the bed and sits. “This is going to be . . . interesting.”

“Interesting is one word for it.” I cross my arms at my chest.

She sighs, brushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. “Okay, ground rules. No snoring, no hogging the blankets, and absolutely no crossing the invisible line down the middle of the bed.”

I smirk, tilting my head. “Invisible line, huh? Sounds complicated.”

“It’s not,” she says firmly. “You stay on your side; I stay on mine. Simple. No sex in your parents’ house.”

“You’re no fun.” The thought of being this close to her all night without crossing that line sounds like its own brand of torture.

“Do we have a deal?” She holds out her hand.

“Another deal.” I wink.

“Oh, shut it.” She shakes her head. “Yes or no?”

I hesitate for a second, then step forward and shake her hand. Her skin is warm against mine, and I forget how to let go.

“Deal,” I say finally, my voice quieter than I intended.

She pulls her hand back quickly, clearing her throat as she stands. “Good. Now, let’s figure out where to put my stuff.”

After unpacking her bag and finding room for her things in my closet (barely), we settle into an awkward rhythm.

I sit on the edge of the bed, watching as she arranges her toiletries on the small desk by the window.

“This feels like something you would see in a movie about summer camp,” she mutters, lining up her travel-size bottles of shampoo and lotion. “I never went, so I wouldn’t know, but I imagine it like this.”

“Except at camp, you don’t usually have to share a bed with your bunkmate,” I point out.

She glares at me over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah, well, don’t remind me.”

I laugh, leaning back on my hands. “Relax, Hex. It’s just a bed.”

“A bed we’ll be sharing for lord knows how long while we hide away from the press,” she says, turning to face me. “This is your fault, you know.”

“My fault?” I say, feigning offense.

“Yes,” she says, crossing her arms. “If you hadn’t dragged me into this whole farm hideout plan, I’d be at home in my perfectly comfortable apartment, in my perfectly comfortable bed.”

“Where the paparazzi would still be camped outside your door,” I point out.

She sighs, her shoulders sagging. “Okay, fine. You’re right. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Fair enough,” I say, standing and walking over to her. “But hey, look on the bright side.”

“What bright side?” She narrows her eyes.

“At least my mom likes you.” I grin. “That’s more than I can say for most people I’ve dated.”

Her cheeks flush, and she looks away, pretending to straighten a bottle of lotion. “One, it sounds like you’ve never brought a woman home before . . . and two, that’s because your mom doesn’t know the full story.”

“Maybe.” I lean against my desk. “Or maybe she just has good taste.”

She glances at me, and something unspoken passes between us.

“Well,” she says, breaking the silence. “We should probably get ready for bed.”

“Yeah. Good idea.”

“Are you sure this will work?” she asks.

“Nope,” I say, grinning.

She groans, climbing onto the bed and lying down on one side. “If you kick me in your sleep, I’m moving to the couch downstairs.”

“Noted,” I say, lying down beside her.

The bed creaks under our weight, and neither of us speaks. The room is quiet except for our breathing. “Thanks for coming here.” I turn my head to look at her.

“Thanks for bringing me.” She smiles at me, and my heart thumps in my chest. “Good night, Hudson.”

“Good night, Hex.”