Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
DAISY
The smell of coffee wakes me before I open my eyes.
It’s warm and rich, and when I step into the kitchen, he’s already there—Hudson Mills, in all his rugged, sleepy-eyed glory, standing at the counter in a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, pouring two mugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
Daisy Mills . It has a nice ring to it. I think I can get used to that.
I try not to smile too much as I sit down and take a sip. “You make a mean cup of coffee. That’s a green flag for a future husband.”
He snorts. “Don’t call me that before caffeine.”
I wrap my hands around the mug and take a sip. It’s perfect. Hot, strong, a little bitter—like him, honestly. But I’ll dial it back on the husband talk—I don’t want to scare him off on day two.
We sit in silence for a moment, not awkward, not forced. Just… quiet.
“So,” I say, gently breaking the stillness, “maybe we should move on to the next part of the agency rules?”
He raises an eyebrow. “There’s more?”
“Yep. Hobbies,” I say, nodding like it’s written in stone. “It says we should share our interests, explore each other’s worlds.”
He blinks at me like he’s waiting for the catch. “What, like... now?”
“Mmhmm. They told me you were a painter. You should show me your paintings.”
That gets him. He hesitates—just long enough to tell me I’m not the first to ask.
Eventually, he stands, jerks his head toward the back of the house. “Alright. Come on.”
I follow him down a short hallway and through a door that creaks open into a sun-drenched room full of canvases and turpentine and the wild, chaotic smell of oil paint. I inhale it like it’s the most beautiful perfume I’ve ever smelled.
“Oh wow,” I breathe, stepping inside. “This is... incredible.”
He looks down, almost embarrassed. “It’s a mess.”
“It’s a masterpiece of a mess,” I say, spinning slowly in place, taking it all in. Canvases are leaned against the walls—some nearly finished, some half-started, and one massive one on an easel that looks like it could be drawn from the back porch.
“You painted these?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He shrugs. “Most of them.”
I step closer to the biggest canvas, tilting my head as I admire the swirls of color and emotion tangled across it.
He steps beside me to say something, but as he does, we bump into each other—stuck between two easels.
I stumble a bit, and when I turn my head, I realize our bodies are completely pressed together—hips, shoulders, everything.
“Oh,” I whisper.
He’s right there, close enough that I can see every line of his face—the way his brow furrows in surprise, the sharp curve of his jaw.
My heart hammers wildly, heat rising low and slow through my belly.
His breath catches, and I swear I can feel the electric pull between us, like a current running just beneath my skin.
We’re tangled together, pressed so close that the world outside the room blurs and fades. My hands tremble, caught between wanting to reach out and the fear of crossing some invisible line. There’s something raw and fragile in this moment, something neither of us expected but both feel.
I hope he doesn’t notice how hard I’m breathing or how my heart is thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to break free. His touch is gentle, reverent almost, like he doesn’t get to touch people often and wants to get it exactly right.
He chuckles awkwardly and starts to shift, but stops.
“What...?” I ask.
“Your hair,” he says, reaching up. “It’s stuck. Button snag.”
Of course it is.
His fingers are careful as they try to untangle me, brushing against my neck, his breath soft against my cheek. The flannel of his shirt is warm where it touches me, and I’m acutely aware of every place our bodies meet.
“There,” he murmurs, finally tugging the last strand free.
But neither of us moves.
Not yet.
We’re still standing too close. His hands drop slowly, but he doesn’t step away. I don’t either.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Anytime,” he replies, but it sounds like he means something else entirely.
I smile up at him, eyes locked, breaths mingling.
I move to the old stool in the corner of the studio, knees pulled up, arms hugging them close. Hudson’s picks up a brush standing at the easel, a brush tucked between his fingers, his brow furrowed just slightly like the world disappears when he paints.
I could watch him for hours.
He’s in his zone, and I’m in awe. The painting he’s working on looks like it could breathe. The layers of green fold into each other like a secret. The clouds in the sky look like they’re moving. It’s... breathtaking. Quiet magic. And somehow, he just does it—like it's nothing.
“How did you learn to paint like this?” I ask softly, not wanting to break the spell.
He glances at me over his shoulder. “My mom,” he says, voice a little rough, like the memory scrapes against something tender inside him.
“She used to paint. Mostly landscapes—natural stuff. Trees, rivers, mountains. She said nature was honest, and people were messy. So she taught me to look for the quiet things.”
I smile, picturing a young version of him sitting beside her, a paintbrush too big in his hand, probably trying to copy whatever she did.
“She taught you?”
He nods, dabbing at a patch of light on the canvas. “When I was a teenager, we’d paint together on the back porch. Didn’t matter if it was freezing or raining, we’d be out there with our mugs of tea and our brushes. It was the only time I really felt... still.”
His voice trails off like he’s in that moment again.
“She sounds lovely,” I say, my chest warming at the picture he’s painted—one made of memory, not brushstrokes.
He nods. “She was. She passed a while back, but I still feel her sometimes, when I’m out in the trees or when I catch the light just right in a painting.” He pauses, then adds, “Painting’s always been my center. When life gets loud, I come in here. It’s quiet again.”
I let his words settle over me like a blanket. There’s something so vulnerable about the way he shares, like it costs him something. And yet, he’s giving it freely.
I shift on the stool and lean forward slightly. “I think it’s beautiful—that you have something like this.
“Do you ever draw people?” I ask.
“Hah!” He laughs. “No, I don’t even think I would know where to start.”
“I have an idea,” I say, more playfully than I feel. My heart’s already fluttering, stupid with hope. “You should draw me.”
Hudson looks up from the canvas he’s been adjusting. His face is unreadable at first—his brows low, his mouth neutral, but not unkind. “I don’t really draw people,” he says after a second. “I mostly do landscapes. Trees, mountains. That kind of thing.”
I laugh softly, trying to make it sound light, teasing. “Well, maybe you should try new things. You know… like me.”
He doesn’t smile.
He doesn’t even chuckle.
Instead, he shifts uncomfortably and looks back at the canvas. “I don’t want to.”
The words hang in the air like a slap.
I freeze. My smile dies so fast it’s embarrassing. My cheeks are already hot, burning with shame. “Right,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. I force out a tight laugh and step away. “Of course. That was dumb. Forget I said anything.”
“Daisy—” he starts, but I don’t wait to hear it.
It was going so well and now I’ve made a fool of myself. I need out. Now. Just a little space to regroup. I feel like I killed the magic between us by pushing too hard.
“I’m just gonna go get some air,” I say quickly, my words running over his. “I’ll, uh… I’ll feed the cat.”
I walk fast, too fast, out of the studio and down the hallway. My feet echo too loud on the floor and my eyes sting, but I don’t cry. I won’t. Not here. Not in his house.
His house . Not mine.
I close the door to the bedroom behind me and press my back against it, breathing hard. My cat blinks up at me from the bed, tail flicking lazily like the world isn’t tilting sideways underneath me.
I feel stupid. Stupid for making it awkward when we were building something good. Stupid for pushing. For suggesting. For hoping.
I should know better.
My ex used to go quiet like that before he’d explode. Before he’d make me feel like nothing for wanting too much. For wanting anything . I learned quick—don’t press. Don’t poke. Don’t make a man feel cornered. That was the first step toward the bruises, the silence, the screaming.
And I didn’t come here to fall in love. I came here to survive.
I wrap my arms around myself and sit down on the edge of the bed, the air thick with my own embarrassment. I’d convinced myself this arrangement was about safety. About stability. That love was for fools and fairy tales.
But the second he smiled at me yesterday, I started spinning dreams like a girl who doesn’t remember what it's like to be afraid of wanting.
Maybe I’m already messing it up? Maybe he doesn’t want me the way I want him?
Back to viewing this as a business arrangement.