Chapter 79
79
Molly
Sunlight fills the barn with a soft glow as Hudson leads me to my surprise . When he finally stops, my eyes go wide.
No way am I going up there.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and glance at the ladder Hudson wants me to climb.
“Nope.”
“I’ll be right behind you. Trust me.”
My heart is racing, though I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s the climb. Or perhaps it’s Hudson asking me to trust him again.
This man seems to think pushing my limits is his job.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to.” His calm voice wants to reassure me. It’s sweet, and I might complain, but he does have a point. Each day that he has pushed my limits, I have felt amazing after, so maybe he’s on to something. “But I know you can do it,” he says, sealing the deal.
I put my hand on the ladder but pause, my grip tightening.
Backing down isn’t an option.
Not again.
Not this time.
I need to challenge myself.
Trust that I will be okay and not just because Hudson is behind me, but because I know in my heart, I’ll be safe.
“Fine. I’ll do it.” The words come out quickly, despite my uncertainty.
I don’t want to change my mind.
I need to do this. So I do. I take a step up, then another, and another until I’m at the top.
Once on solid ground, I stop short, surprised by what I find.
The space is unexpectedly charming, with sunlight pouring in through a large arched window.
It feels like we are in another country. It’s magical.
He really pulled out all the stops.
In the center, Hudson has set up a blanket, and on top of it sits two Mason jars filled with pale yellow lemonade. There is also some wrapped bundle that I have to assume is food.
He steps up behind me, his larger-than-life presence filling the small space.
“Fancy,” I say, turning over my shoulder to look at him.
Hudson shrugs, grinning like this is no big deal. “Hey, I have standards.” He leads me to the blanket, then drops down and pats the spot beside him for me to sit.
I hesitate.
But finally, I lower myself beside him, legs folded awkwardly beneath me.
He unwraps the bundle, revealing slices of red apple and a handful of sugar cubes nestled in a cloth.
“Snacks for the horses?” I shoot him a sideways glance.
“And us.” He pops a sugar cube into his mouth like it’s a piece of candy.
“You can’t be serious. You want me to eat raw sugar?”
“Yeah, what of it?” he says, holding a sugar cube out to me. “You know you want to.”
I hesitate, narrowing my eyes at him.
He’s a pain. He’s fully aware I won’t back down when he words it like that. I pluck it from his hand, the tips of my fingers brushing his.
It’s a small thing, that touch, but it lingers more than it should.
I place the cube on my tongue, my brows furrowing as it dissolves. It’s sweet.
Very sweet, but it makes me feel giddy. Must be having a sugar high.
“See?” Hudson says, his grin widening. “Not so bad.”
“Not bad,” I admit.
We fall into a comfortable silence, sharing the slices of apple.
I glance at Hudson out of the corner of my eye. The sunlight catches on his face. He’s beautiful.
Something about him makes me ache in a way I don’t want to name.
How does he do it?
How does he do this to me?
For a second, my heart races, but then I take a breath.
It’s funny. I would never expect Hudson to be so comfortable here. I wonder if he misses Redville. Or is this enough?
“You ever get tired of this?” I ask suddenly, the words spilling out before I can stop them.
Hudson blinks, turning to look at me. “Of what?”
“This.” I gesture broadly at the barn. “The quiet, the farm . . . everything.”
“Never,” he says without a second’s hesitation, leaning back on his hands. “It’s home.”
The word hits me hard, and it’s difficult to keep steady. Home . The word feels foreign. I drop my gaze to my hands, the weight of the word pressing into me.
I’ve never had that. Not really. Home isn’t a place for me. It’s just . . . somewhere I end up. That’s not true. I have Dane.
Had.
He now has Josie.
Must be nice.
Where does that leave me?
But for a second, I allow myself to believe—just a little—that maybe I could have this.
Hours later, Mason jars still in hand, Hudson shows me the rest of the property. Eventually, we stop to sit down and drink our lemonade.
“Pretty great, right?” he says, tilting his chin toward the horizon. The sun is currently a beautiful shade of pink as it dips low into the sky.
I smile faintly and let my eyes follow his. The fields stretch endlessly. It’s green as far as the eye can see.
“It’s beautiful.” I sigh.
It really is beautiful. Too beautiful, maybe.
Like something out of a dream I would never let myself have.
We fall into silence—not awkward, not tense, just quiet.
Everything about this moment is perfect.
The way the air smells of wildflowers to the soft breeze in the air that tugs at the loose strands of my hair.
Hudson’s hand reaches out and tucks the piece behind my ear, and when he does, I let him.
I love being here with him.
It feels right.
“Do you miss this?” I gesture around us, making it clear I’m talking about the farm.
Hudson takes a deep breath before looking out over the fields.
“Every day,” he admits on a sigh. “But what other choice do I have? Hockey’s the dream, you know? Always has been.” He pauses. “But this . . . this is home.”
There’s that word again.
Home.
And it lands as heavy right now as it did before.
I tighten my grip on the jar. My throat feels tight, and I’m not sure why.
“What’s that like?” I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper.
Hudson turns toward me, his brows pulling together in a gentle crease. “What do you mean?”
“Having a place that feels like home,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the horizon. My voice is steady, but it feels like I might break. “I don’t think I’ve ever had that.”
There it is.
I did it.
I said the one thing I never thought I’d say out loud.
Why did I say it now? Why does he make me feel like it’s safe to admit it?
The easy humor in Hudson’s expression fades.
He sets his jar down on the ground beside him, turning fully to face me. His eyes search mine, and I resist the urge to look away.
“You know”—his voice is quieter now—“home doesn’t always have to be a place.” He leans in slightly, just enough that I can feel the shift in his presence. “Sometimes it’s just . . . people. The ones who make you feel safe.”
My chest tightens, the weight of his words pressing against something fragile inside me.
A lump rises in my throat.
I try to swallow but can’t.
I break his gaze, not wanting him to see the tears filling my eyes. I won’t let them fall.
“I’m not sure I’ve had that either.”
Hudson doesn’t rush to fill the silence. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t fidget. He just stays there, solid and present, until finally, he speaks.
“You do now,” he says, his voice calm but so certain it feels like a promise.
My breath catches, the air hitching painfully in my chest.
I tighten my grip on the Mason jar, holding it like it’s the only thing keeping me steady. Slowly, I turn back to him, my eyes locking on his.
The weight in my chest that I’ve carried for so long—the feeling of not belonging . . . it feels like it might crack open.
That I might crack open.