Chapter 2
Chapter Two
P almer
I drop my suitcases in the middle of the loft, exhaling sharply.
This is it. My new home.
Or at least the place I’ll be hiding out until I figure out my next move.
The space is exactly what I expected from a man like Hudson Kane—simple, rugged, and completely devoid of anything resembling warmth. The bed is huge, built from thick wooden beams, the mattress covered in a dark gray blanket that looks rough to the touch. There’s a single nightstand, a dresser, and a closet Hudson’s actually cleared out for me.
I open it and frown.
It’s small. Like, half a foot of closet space small. My fingers graze the wooden hangers as I glance back at my massive suitcases. My wardrobe is meant for an upscale Boston apartment, not a remote cabin in the mountains.
What the hell am I doing here? I take a deep breath, trying to shake the growing anxiety clawing at my chest. I ran from one dangerous man straight into the arms of another. Brilliant plan, Palmer.
I press a hand against my stomach, steadying my nerves. I don’t know Hudson well, but he’s not Malcolm. He’s rough, intimidating, overly large and entirely too grumpy, but I don’t get the same sickening, suffocating feeling I did whenever Malcolm walked into a room.
Still.
I don’t trust men. Especially not ones as powerful as Hudson Kane.
A vibration from my phone startles me. I whip it out, heart hammering.
Malcolm.
His name glares at me from the screen, the same way it has for the past three months. Persistent. Controlling. Unrelenting.
I hit decline. Again.
Another buzz. A text this time.
Palmer. Enough of this. Call me back.
I shove the phone deep into my pocket, as if I can silence the sheer force of his presence by burying it.
A deep voice rumbles from the doorway. “You avoiding someone?”
I spin around, pulse jumping. Hudson leans against the wooden doorframe, arms crossed, his broad shoulders blocking most of the light.
I recover fast, forcing a smirk. “Jealous already?”
He grunts, unimpressed. “If you’re running from some guy, you should probably tell me.”
I hesitate. The last thing I need is for Hudson to start asking questions. If he figures out who I’m running from, he’ll realize the danger that comes with keeping me here.
I paste on a smile. “Just someone from my past. He can be…intense when he wants something.”
Hudson studies me, his gaze too damn sharp, like he’s peeling back the layers one by one.
“Trouble in paradise?” he mutters.
I scoff. “Something like that.”
I slip past him before he can push further, heading down the stairs.
Cooking. That’s what I need. Something to keep my hands busy, my mind from spiraling.
I step into the kitchen a minute later, assessing the bare minimum ingredients Hudson has stocked. It’s clear the man survives on coffee, jerky, and whatever he hunts. I dig around until I find some flour, eggs, and canned tomatoes. Lasagna. My specialty.
The scent of garlic and simmering tomato sauce fills the kitchen as I roll out the pasta dough. For the first time since stepping foot in this cabin, I feel grounded. The wooden floor creaks behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find Hudson watching me, arms crossed.
“You do this when you’re nervous?” he asks.
I blink. “Do what?”
“Cook.” His gaze flicks to the mess I’ve made on his counter.
I shrug. “Some people drink. Some people go for a run. I make pasta.”
A beat of silence.
“You nervous about me?”
The way he says it—gruff, confident, like he already knows the answer—makes my stomach flip.
I force myself to focus on kneading the dough, my fingers pressing firmly into the flour-dusted surface.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit.
He exhales through his nose, stepping closer. “Good. That means you’re smart.”
I glance at him again, my fingers pausing on the dough. “That a warning?”
His lips curl at the edges. “Just saying. You don’t know me. Could be worse than the guy you’re running from.”
Something about the way he says it—low, almost a challenge—makes heat curl low in my stomach.
I tilt my head, assessing him.
“You’re not.”
His brow lifts. “How do you know?”
“Because if you were, you wouldn’t have cleared out closet space for me.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “That’s what does it for you? A couple empty drawers?”
I roll the dough again, smirking. “Hey, it’s the little things.”
He steps closer. Too close. His big frame crowds the kitchen, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.
“You’re trouble, Palmer.”
I swallow hard. “So are you.”
His gaze drops to my lips, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to touch me.
Heat flares between us, thick and suffocating.
Then—
A loud ding from the oven breaks the moment.
I inhale sharply, spinning back to the stove. Right. Cooking. Focus on that, not the dangerously attractive man standing behind me. All broad shoulders and rumbly voice–my heart thrums wildly with just a single glance from him.
I distract myself by pulling the lasagna out, the scent of melted cheese and tomato sauce filling the kitchen.
Hudson moves away, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “You trying to butter me up?”
“Is it working?”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Guess we’ll see.”
We sit at the small wooden table, plates between us. I take a bite, humming. Perfect. Hudson watches me, his own fork halfway to his mouth.
“What?” I ask.
“You make that sound again and you’re gonna have more trouble on your hands than whatever you’re running from.”
Heat flushes my skin.
He takes a bite, chewing slowly before nodding. “Damn. This might be the only reason I keep you around.”
I roll my eyes, hiding my smile. We eat in silence, but the tension remains. Thick. Electric. Like a wire ready to snap. And I realize then—Hudson Kane might be my new husband on paper, but in every other way?
He’s a storm I’m not sure I can outrun.
And worse?
I don’t know if I want to.