15. Lacy
15
LACY
W ater sprays me from the kitchen tap. The lettuce I’m washing to have a side salad with dinner now saturated and my t-shirt looking similar.
“Why are you jittery?” My mom watches me carefully from where she is sitting at the dining table. Ever since she found that letter earlier, I have been feeling off. The letters I constantly receive, the ongoing text messages and emails, lying to Mom… None of it feels good.
“I’m not,” I say quickly, taking a deep breath to slow my racing heart. I think about Hudson again. My body seems to calm a little whenever I do. I get lost thinking about the way he stargazed with me, the way he bought me cookies, the way he grabbed the thorn from my skin with his teeth, how he kissed me.
“You have been fidgeting and dropping things all night, Lacy,” my mom scolds me as I grab a kitchen cloth and wipe my white t-shirt. The wet material sticks to me a little where the water splashes hit me, but I don’t care. It’s just Mom and me and it isn’t like she hasn’t seen my bra before.
“There’s just a lot going on at work,” I tell her, which isn’t a lie. The trip to New York is also on my mind. I need to put a roster together for daytime visitors and support people for her. I also need to cook some meals and put them in the freezer, ensure the cleaning and washing are all up to date, and do a grocery shop. Me being away for a week takes a lot of coordination.
“Is that why you keep dropping things and look flustered?” Mom asks, and I stop what I’m doing and look at her. Her lips purse a little.
I sigh, close my eyes, and take another deep breath, lowering my shoulders. I’m tired, cranky, and stressed.
“That’s better,” she says. “So are you thinking about Hudson?”
My eyes ping open and I look at her, seeing a wide grin on her face, and my shoulders are now back up near my ears.
“How did you know?” I mumble, somewhat surprised, but I might as well indulge her since she has mentioned him to me a few times already.
She scoffs. “Bit hard not to, honey. The man has been in town for only a month, been out here to the house, gave you his jacket to keep warm, which you so lovingly pressed for him the next morning. He’s bringing me specialist medical attention from the city, which is happening rather quickly, and Rochelle told me today that he got you your favorite cookies,” she says, raising an eyebrow. Damn Rochelle. This town talks more than parrots on speed .
“We are just friends.” I chop the lettuce like it has done me dirty. I’m tense all over again. Hudson cares, I know he does, but we can’t be anything. That’s why I stopped it. His lips were so soft, so demanding, and I wanted to lean into it more, but I can’t.
“He is a good man…” Mom says, and while I’m not looking at her, I can feel her gaze burn into my face. “I will forever be indebted to him…”
“What do you mean?” I ask her, my brow furrowed as I slice the lettuce, the knife slipping a little in my wet hand.
“He saved you that night, Lacy. He was the one who got you back for me.” Her eyes water as her voice cracks. My breath pauses momentarily before I clear my throat and already want to remove the heaviness of the conversation.
“There’s a lot to consider, Mom. He’s an older, wealthy widower, who also happens to be a dad,” I point out to her as I rub my eyes, the dizziness tonight worse than ever, and talking about all this isn’t helping.
“Oh, little Harvey is such a delight. Susan talks about him constantly,” Mom says, now smiling again. She brushed right over my other concerns, probably knowing I’m grasping at straws here. I can’t help but smile too, though, because his son really is such a special kid.
“Harvey is great. They joined me at the diner the other week…” I tell her, trying to act like none of it matters when, deep down, I’m feeling a mixture of emotions.
“Hmmmm… Rochelle told me that as well,” Mom murmurs .
“Why does everyone in this town talk so much?” I snap, and it’s clear my mom doesn’t like my tone by the look she gives me. I’m tired, the water on the lettuce is annoying me, New York is on my mind, and my hand keeps slipping as I chop harder.
“Are you okay, Lacy, really?” Her tone softens, and I pause. I don’t need her worrying about me and some stupid schoolgirl crush I seem to have developed.
“Fine, Mom,” I say, a little calmer. I wish the local community center had yoga or something, not that I would have time to go. But I’m just. So. Tired.
“So… Hudson?” she teases again, and I roll my eyes just as the knife slips from my hand and clatters to the floor.
“This stupid knife,” I grumble, bending over and swiping it from the floor, the water on my hands making me miss the handle, and my hand sliding straight down, my palm slicing on the blade.
“Shit!” I curse, pulling up with a jolt, the pain instant. I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to breathe through the pain.
“Lacy!” my mom scolds with an angry frown at my language before her eyes rest on my hand, my white t-shirt now not only see-through but getting coated in red and her face morphs into shock.
“I’ll call the doctor,” she says, grabbing her cell next to her as she panics. I snatch the kitchen towel from the counter and wrap my hand, holding it tightly to my chest for comfort as the burning pain sears through my skin. It’s all I can do to nod to her in agreement as I start to feel even more lightheaded.
I can hear Susan and Mom chatting in the living room as Hudson and I sit at the kitchen table.
“It’s a pretty clean cut. Is there anything you’re not perfect at?” he asks, grinning, his smile making my heart skip a beat. His doctor's bag lays open at our feet, my table now no longer set for dinner but as a makeshift hospital trolley with bandages, antiseptic, and thread.
“I like to ensure everything I do is done to the best of my ability,” I say sarcastically, wondering why this is happening to me. He looks good, as always. His smile is warm, his hands gentle. He’s slightly more casual than I’ve seen him before, but still very well put together. Everything just seems to match or work well on him. Me, on the other hand… I have my oldest threadbare jeans on, my white t-shirt now pink from the blood and slightly see-through from the water. Dried blood smears up my arm, my hair is haphazardly pulled back, and while I haven’t looked at myself, I’m one hundred percent certain that my mascara is all smudged.
“Admirable. Although apparently texting people back isn’t one of the things you do?” Hudson says, looking at me with a raised eyebrow, and I nearly wince with guilt.
“I was just busy,” I murmur my poor excuse, and he grins.
“Hmmmm, does it take you that long to get back to everyone who texts you or just me?” He doesn’t seem upset, still smiling, almost like he is enjoying teasing me about it .
I go with the truth. “Just you,” I tell him, my lips curving into a smile as his widens.
“Well, one thing you should know about me, Lacy, is that when I want something, I’m persistent.”
My breath catches as his smile gives way to a look that almost burns down my entire facade. As he looks at me like he wants nothing more than to pick me up and make a meal out of me right here on this kitchen table, my heart pounds, stomach flips, and I will my mouth to move.
“Good to know,” I whisper to him as he removes his gaze from me and focuses back on my hand.
“Now, I hope that you can refrain from any further accidents with sharp objects. Not that I mind mending you. You are my favorite patient,” he says, looking at me with a sexy-as-sin smirk before giving me a wink as he starts his final stitch.
“Can’t promise anything,” I tease, and he chuckles. It’s contagious. It feels nice to smile. These small snippets of what life could be like make me ache with longing. I love them and despise them in equal parts.
“There,” he says with finality, looking at his handiwork. “Those stitches will need to stay in for about a week. I will bandage it for you, but you need to keep it clean and dry for a good few days.” He cups my hand, inspecting where he stitched. My hand is small in his, his embrace warm, and my whole body flushes at the contact.
“I will do my best,” I tell him to get my mind back on the issue. I can’t lie. I have washing to do, dishes too, so it’s bound to get wet .
“I hope that you do. Maybe I should do daily house calls? Make sure you are doing what you are told?” he murmurs, looking at me under his brow, already knowing I won’t rest it and will continue to use it in every way he is telling me not to. My hand still rests in his. I haven’t moved and neither has he, and I don’t miss the way his thumb strums along my palm as he contemplates.
“Do you not trust me?” I tease, a smile dancing on my lips.
“Ohhhh, I do. I trust you wholeheartedly. But I know you don’t put yourself first, so that might be something I step in and do. I kinda like the idea of taking care of you,” he says, and I swallow as I take a shaky breath. I’ve never had anyone take care of me. I wouldn’t even know what that felt like.
“Thank you, Hudson,” I say seriously, appreciating him coming and putting me back together. The pain is now almost gone due to a light numbing cream he used on my hand. I would like to tell him he didn’t have to come, but as the town doctor, he kind of did. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”
“The cream should help tonight. I think your thumbs will still work to text me, you know, in case you ever want to get back to my messages.”
I bite my lip and smile. Him calling me out for ignoring his messages feels like our own little inside joke. It’s nice to have something between us. I look up at him, and his eyes don’t leave mine. He moves his leg then, his knee brushing against my own, and my breath quickens at our closeness.
“Dinner is ruined,” I comment with a sigh, looking over my shoulder at the kitchen behind me. His mother rushed in with him tonight, and while Hudson took me to the table to address my injury, Susan helped my mom who was in a flustered panic, before she kindly cleaned up the shredded lettuce and other ingredients that were either on the counter or the floor. I feel a deep pang of guilt looking at the sparkling clean kitchen, knowing I didn’t do it and had guests in my home who did it for me. I now need to order Susan some flowers to say thank you, or maybe get her a little gift from the distillery and mentally add that to my never-ending to-do list. Victoria and Annabelle are working on some goat milk soaps at the moment, so that might be nice for her. My mind then flicks to the fact that I still need to scrounge around in the kitchen to put something else together before Mom gets too hungry. My own stomach now growls, it demanding food too.
“Don’t worry about that. I handled it,” he says, and my head whips back around so fast I almost stumble in my seat.
“What? What do you mean, handled it?” I ask in confusion, having no idea what he is talking about.
“When we got here and I saw everything, I called Rochelle. Asked her to bring something over for dinner and something you can just heat up for tomorrow night as well. I could see that you needed something and it should be here soon,” he says casually, like it is the most natural thing in the world for someone to do as he looks at the time on his Rolex that shimmers under my dining room lights.
“You didn’t have to do that.” I’m equal parts appreciative and tentative. “How much was it? Let me get my purse.” I move, about to stand, but his hold on my hand tightens, stopping me. I look at him, noticing his jaw pop.
“You need to eat, and I knew I didn’t want you using this hand again tonight, so I took care of it.” His hand comes to my face and pushes a hair from my cheek, curling it around my ear. Took care of it . I have no words, no idea what to say. I’ve never been in this position before. Guilt at not doing what I need to do for Mom, mixed in with a sprinkling of gratitude and uncertainty, makes a mess of my stomach as it sinks a little.
“Speak of the devil, here she is,” Hudson says, standing at the sight of car lights shooting through the already darkening sky. My mind whirls, struggling to keep up with exactly what is happening as I watch Hudson go to my door. Opening it like he lives here, he meets Rochelle and grabs the bags before she makes a quick exit. The smell of her delicious homemade chicken soup encases my home and my mouth waters. He takes the bags to the kitchen and starts unpacking them, and I fidget, my nerves dancing. I can’t let him help me like this, but before I can jump up, his mom rushes in.
“Let me get that ready for you all,” Susan says with a broad smile and gets busy in the kitchen as Hudson sits back next to me, grabbing a bandage out of his bag. My body tenses. I don’t like this. Susan is a guest; she shouldn’t be in my kitchen, putting together our dinner. She’s already done too much with the cleanup. Hudson shouldn’t have ordered it, and I feel nauseous because I don’t want to be in debt to anyone. This town talks. Too much. The last thing I need is people discussing my finances now as well.
“Relax. It’s just chicken soup. It’s already hot so it will take her two minutes to put some in bowls for you and your mom,” Hudson says as he gently wraps the bandage around my hand. Clearly, I’m an open book because he knew exactly what I was thinking, and I can’t move because he has my hand hostage.
“She doesn’t need to worry. I could have done it,” I tell him, not wanting to sound ungrateful, but feeling really uncomfortable having all the attention and assistance.
“Not with this hand, you can’t. Besides, I’m pretty sure she’s going to make you a week’s worth of pot roast once we leave here.” He grins, knowing that I hate all this help, yet my mouth waters slightly, because Susan makes the best pot roast I’ve ever eaten. I look down and see the bandage nice and thick around my hand and frown.
“I’m not going to be able to do anything with this,” I say to him, my hand now firmly wrapped.
“That is my plan.” With a smirk, he finishes off the bandage as his mom delivers a bowl of soup over to us before taking one to my mother in the living room and leaving us to it again. My stomach rumbles at the smell. Rochelle is the best cook in town and her chicken soup is no exception.
“Hungry?” Hudson asks with a small smile, clearly hearing my stomach.
“No, I’m fine,” I lie through my teeth as my stomach rumbles embarrassingly loudly.
“Liar,” he says with a chuckle, clearly enjoying himself. “Here, let me help you.” He moves the bowl closer. I go to grab the spoon and stop. The hand I hurt is my right one, the hand I use for everything, and there’s absolutely no way I will be able to grip a spoon and feed myself soup with this bandaged hand. I go to grab the spoon in my left hand instead, but that feels so uncoordinated I already know that I will miss my mouth more times than I will meet it. Spilling soup on my already mess of a top in front of Hudson is about as enticing as slicing my hand on that blade again.
“I… I can’t…” I stutter, frustrated, hungry, yet stubborn enough to keep trying.
“Let me feed you,” Hudson says, sweeping up the spoon and dunking it into the bowl. I suck in a sharp breath and feel a little dizzy again.
“No. It’s fine. I can do it.” But it’s too late, the spoon is filled with soup and lifted to my face, waiting for me.
“Be a good girl and open your mouth, Lacy,” he says in a deep tone, and my eyes snap to his. Heat swirls between us. His overt flirting takes on a new level of seduction, and my mouth waters, wanting to take anything he serves. We watch each other closely for a moment, my insides taking flight as my heart rate increases before I do exactly what he says. I open my mouth, and he serves me the spoon. I move deliberately, my eyes hooked on his, swallowing the warm, tasty soup. His lips part with both appreciation and admiration, his eyes now hooked on my mouth as he takes back the spoon.
I lick my lips, running my tongue along my bottom lip slowly, and see his jaw clench. The air around us has shifted. The tension is thick, and he’s silent as he fills the spoon again and repeats the motion.
“That’s my girl,” he soothes, his voice deep, almost a growl. My body reacts to him immediately, my heart thudding, my skin buzzing. The pleasure I feel from doing what he tells me is somewhat relaxing in a life where I usually need to make all the decisions and must carry the load myself. I’ve never been anyone’s girl, but right now, I really want to be his.
The soup hits my tongue, and I hum at the flavors. “This is the best soup I have ever had,” I murmur before I open my eyes and see him staring back at me. Heat swirls in his gaze, and his intense stare has my pussy pulsing in time with my heartbeat right here at the dinner table.
His eyes don’t move from mine as he fills the spoon again, bringing it to my lips.
“Good girl,” he drawls. “Nearly done.”
“You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” I ask him, my tone much breathier than I intended.
“I am. Very much. I could watch you swallow all day. The way your throat moves. Your neck is so delicate…” he says, continuing to feed me while I flush at his words.
“I like you feeding me,” I whisper, and it feels like the tension has spiked one hundred degrees as his nostrils flare and his gaze fills with wanting.
“Be a good girl and finish this soup, and I might do it again sometime.”
We continue, sitting at the table in silence. I finish the soup, him watching me, being gentle, his movements purposeful and ensuring I eat all of it. Just as he asked me to .
“Thank you,” I say as he pushes the empty bowl to the side. Then he grabs my hand again, running his fingers up and down the inside of my wrist.
“What are you doing Thursday night?” Hudson asks, and I balk a little, not expecting that question. I sit, shocked for a moment, as it dawns on me that he’s asking me out.
“Ummm…” I think out loud, caught off guard, my body and mind clearly still on the soup experience, and as he sits smirking at me, I realize that was his intention all along. Catching me by surprise so I couldn’t make an excuse. Cooking, cleaning, helping Mom, working, they all flow through my head at a rapid pace.
“I’m busy,” I say with vigor, because I want to go out with him, but I just can’t say the words. They feel too foreign on my tongue, and after what I just experienced at my dining table, I’m not sure how we could keep our hands to ourselves for a one-on-one date. I’m clearly losing my mind, and I need to tame my feelings; otherwise, I will be complete putty in his hands.
“You are. With me,” he says, nodding, almost challenging me to disagree. I bite my bottom lip, really wanting to say yes before my eyes flick to the living room, thinking about my mother, and my body sinks again.
“I told you, I don’t date,” I say, pleased with my strength to reject him. Again. Even though everything in my body is pushing me to do the opposite.
“I will pick you up at seven.” He continues like he didn’t hear me.
“I can’t, I have to—”
“I will bring my mom over to sit with yours, so you don’t have to worry about her,” he says, and my body hums. I took care of it . His words from earlier sneak back into my brain.
“But…” I start to say, although it is futile.
“I have already booked it.” Now I am intrigued.
“Booked it?” I ask tentatively, a smile coming to my lips, and he smirks. He knows that I’m all in. I think he knew all along.
“ Beetlejuice at the theater in town,” he says, his hand still holding mine, his fingers strumming up the inside of my wrist, almost like he is trying to calm me, scared that I’ll bolt.
“ Beetlejuice ?” I question, the conversation moving too quickly for me to really grasp.
“I’ll be here at seven.” He nods, then stands and looks down at me. The action makes me mimic him, my head nodding in agreement almost automatically, and his smile widens. Did I just agree to a date with Hudson Hamilton?
“Good girl. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he murmurs as his hand cups my jaw gently, clearly knowing that I struggle with putting myself first. I look up at him from where I remain sitting, wide-eyed, and his gaze doesn’t falter from mine. In this position, looking up at him, I want to do whatever he tells me to, just so I can hear him call me a good girl again. Makes me crave another kiss from him.
“I’m not sure yet. Ask me Thursday night,” I grumble, feeling like a brat, but with a smile on my face and my head spinning. His thumb runs over my jaw gently before he lets go .
“I look forward to it. Now no more using this hand for a day or two. Keep it dry.” He starts to pack up his medical gear.
“I need to drive,” I say to him, leaning back in my chair, because there’s no way I can remain at home doing nothing.
His brow furrows as he thinks. “Fine, but not too much. Go slow and be careful when you grip the wheel.”
I nod. I like how he doesn’t tell me what to do. I can tell he would prefer I didn’t use it, but he’s letting me decide.
“Mom? I’m ready,” he calls out, and we hear a scuffling noise. We both turn to look toward the living room, seeing our mothers right near the door, clambering to get back, clearly eavesdropping on our entire conversation.
I roll my eyes, and my cheeks ignite with heat. The Whispers rumor mill is no doubt now in overdrive.