9. Hudson
Chapter 9
Lance Ingram was making it damn fucking hard to stick to my no dating, no relationships policy.
That damn piece of shit had tricked me into a date, and the worst part was I’d loved every second of it. It had been a week since our trick date and I hadn’t been able to wipe the smile from my face.
Smiling over guys wasn’t my thing. Thinking about them long after the sex wasn’t something I did. I didn’t normally hear certain songs and think of a guy. My usual was sex and move on. Sex and move on. Sex and move on. None of this swirly feeling in my chest—I’d never really understood the word giddy, but I damn sure did now.
And it was all fucking Lance’s fault.
Why couldn’t we just keep the sex going and enjoy it while it lasted? Why did Lance have to go and make me get all swoony over him? And it was just a damn movie and steaks—it wasn’t like he took me to Paris to wine and dine me. Yet, my stupid ass was grinning like a damn fool any time I thought of our fingers brushing together or the thought he’d put into making the day happen.
So swoony.
And kinda feverish.
Or maybe I was dizzy.
“Man, you don’t look so hot,” Henry said as I ate lunch at the bar and went over some paperwork for the Juicy Peach while thinking about Lance.
“Just a headache,” I muttered. I actually kinda felt like shit—achy, shivery, headache, exhausted.
“Your cheeks look like you’ve got a fever,” Henry said again, reaching a hand to touch my forehead. “You’re burning up. Go home and sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“Damn it, Hudson, go home before you get me or my customers sick.”
I glanced up with a frown, my sluggish brain not completely caught up with the conversation.
“Seriously, go home. I’ve got enough going on here with the trash bandit?—”
“That’s still a thing?” I asked.
“Yeah, but I’m just leaving food on plates now. Whoever it is has started using the blankets and pillow I left out. They’re eating at the booth out back,” Henry said, referring to the old booth he’d moved to the patio area outside the backdoor, “and they must be curling up there to sleep. They keep everything neat and tidy.”
“Just stay out there and catch them,” I muttered, not really into the conversation as a chill ran through me.
“I mean, I’m not trying to catch anyone. Not like they’re in trouble. Wouldn’t mind helping them, but I don’t want to spook them and have them run away. If they’re eating food and sleeping, I at least know they’re somewhat safe. Haven Grove isn’t dangerous. Maybe I’ll meet them at some point.”
“Could call the marshal,” I said, my teeth chattering.
“Why? I don’t want them in trouble. As long as they aren’t hurting anything or doing anything illegal, I don’t mind it.” Henry pointed a finger at me. “Get out of here. You’re sick.”
“S’posed to meet with Lance,” I slurred. “Gotta look at numbers.”
“I’ll tell him you’re sick. Dad and I will take care of the orchard and the store for a few days. Go. Home. Don’t come back here until the fever has broken. If it gets worse, get to the doctor.”
I didn’t remember packing up my bag or driving home, but I woke several hours later to a dark house, drenched in sweat, and miserable.
God, I hated being sick. Pulling myself from bed and hobbling to the bathroom, I took a piss and contemplated a shower. I was gross and sweaty, but I definitely didn’t think I could stand long enough to shower. I grabbed two waters, a Gatorade, and ibuprofen before crawling back in bed.
Downing the pills with a whole bottle of water, trying to ignore my throbbing head and screaming joints, I flopped onto the pillow with a groan. I’d easily slept five hours earlier, but a wave of exhaustion rolled through me, and I knew I wasn’t on the mend just yet.
My eyes drifted shut and I tumbled into fever dreams.
The next time I woke, my head at least wasn’t about to crack open, and the sun peeked through the blinds. My bladder demanded a trip to the bathroom, but I paused halfway to listen. Something else had woken me.
Coffee.
A clatter of something in the kitchen.
“Henry?” I called out.
“It’s me,” a familiar voice replied.
“Oh, god,” I groaned under my breath. Lance couldn’t fucking see me like this.
What does it matter? You’re just friends and it was just a one-time thing.
“Gotta piss,” I mumbled toward the kitchen before making my way to the bathroom. I still felt like shit—a quick glance in the mirror proved I still looked like shit—but I couldn’t soak in my own sweat any longer. Knowing a shower would feel great, even if it took every ounce of energy I had, I poked my head out the door. “Gonna shower real quick.” I wasn’t sure why Lance was in my house, but it seemed rude to leave him by himself without an explanation.
“Take your time,” he said. “Holler if you need anything, don’t push it. I’ll have food ready if you feel like eating.”
The shower had the combined effect of making me feel somewhat better—or at least less stinky—and also exhausting me to the point of my knees buckling. Wrapping the towel around my waist, and praying I could find a blanket to wrap up in so I didn’t have to cuddle into slick, sweaty sheets, I made my way back to my bedroom.
And found Lance.
Lance in my bedroom.
Lance making my bed—or remaking my bed—with new sheets, the old ones piled in a heap on the floor. “Figured you didn’t want to get back into sweaty sheets. These were in your closet, hope they’re okay to use.”
Unable to stand any longer, a shivery chill letting me know the fever may have gone down but it wasn’t completely gone, I lost the towel and climbed under the covers. Teeth chattering, I mumbled a thank you and prayed to warm up quickly.
Sometime later, I woke with a start, pressed against Lance’s thigh. What the fuck? My noodly arms protested as I tried to push into a sitting position.
Why was Lance in my bed?
“Hey,” he crooned. “You’ve been out for a while.”
“Why are you here?” I croaked.
“Wanted to make sure you were okay. Whatever bug you’ve got hit you quick and knocked you on your ass. I made chicken soup when you feel up to some—like the real kind to help with being sick.” Lance stood from the bed. “There was no chair in here, didn’t know how you’d feel about me pulling one in, so I just popped a squat.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “Water? Juice? Gatorade?”
My stomach grumbled, the scent of chicken soup calling to me. “I’ll get it.”
“Stay in bed. You may be better, but you’re not back to one hundred percent yet. I’ll get it. Soup?”
I nodded. “Can I least go piss?”
Lance smirked as he left the room.
Somehow, after a trip to the bathroom and a bowl of chicken soup, we ended up spending the entire day together. Lance insisted I stay in bed and rest, bringing me liquids and pain pills throughout the day. At one point, I heard him washing dishes, and I swore he cleaned the bathroom and started a load of laundry.
By the time dinner rolled around, I truly did feel nearly normal—the bug had been short-lived but had knocked me out for almost forty-eight hours.
“No need to push it,” Lance said. “You wanna try a shower and dinner?”
“Shower sounds great.”
Thirty minutes later, I was starting to think I may be back among the living as I shuffled into the kitchen. My eyes immediately snagged on a vase of flowers. “Where’d those come from?”
Lance shrugged, plating salmon and veggies at the stove. “Thought they’d brighten things up. Everyone deserves get-well-soon flowers.”
“You got me flowers?” Even I heard the awe in my voice.
Lance just gestured toward the table and brought our plates over.
We ate dinner and fell into easy conversation as if we’d been eating meals together in my farmhouse kitchen for decades. In a way, based on our history, that wasn’t far from the truth. The contented easiness had built between us since the day I was born.
But the awareness, the tension sizzling between us, the pull to take what had existed for years and make it into something so much more lit a fire in my belly—urging me to make a move, admit defeat, give the spark a chance to flame to life.
Never in my life had I been so comfortable and completely myself with someone other than family. Never had I wanted so badly to keep things exactly how they were while also dying to see where things could go.
We ended up in the living room with the television on low as we talked about a few business-related things. When my eyes drifted closed, I gave in to the pull of sleep for a few moments. Lance’s chuckle pulled me from my slumber with a start.
“Sorry,” he said with a wince, a book in hand. “Funny part.” He held up the book he was reading.
“Haven’t read that one yet, you like it?” I murmured. The book was a fictionalized autobiography of a top film star. It had gotten a lot of flak, but also some great reviews for the candid retelling of some of the less flattering parts of his life.
Lance flipped back a few pages and began to read.
Out loud.
Like it was fucking story time.
This gorgeous man had barged back into my life, set me on fire, thrown me for a loop, and demanded things I was sure I couldn’t give.
And now, he was taking care of me while I was sick.
Cooking dinner for me.
Buying me flowers.
Helping me when I was down for the count.
And reading me a fucking book.
No one had ever read me a book. Sure, teachers at school, but no one at home. Even before Mom left, she wasn’t that type of mom. Dad was too busy trying to make a miserable marriage work before she left, and too swallowed up in grief to read to me or Henry after she left. And Henry didn’t love to read so I’m sure it didn’t even cross his mind to read his little brother a story.
But Lance sat right there on my couch and read me a fucking book.
The lump in my throat had to be from the virus. I needed to hydrate and get some more sleep. I cleared my throat and stood up. “Um, think I’m going to head to bed. Thanks for all you did for me. Means a lot and was a real help.”
Not giving Lance time to respond, I shot toward my room and shut the door.
Staring at the ceiling, I listened to the soft sounds of Lance puttering around the house.
My house.
Lance.
The man was in my house, taking care of me as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Despite being exhausted, sleep didn’t come for a long time that night.
My brain was way too busy arguing with itself about the pros and cons of giving things with Lance a chance.
By the time morning rolled around, I knew a couple things.
One, I was well on my way to loving Lance. I mean, I’d loved him my whole life, but this was different. This was falling for the guy.
Falling.
In love?
Fuck, in love.
Something Hudson Riggs did not do.
Two, I still wasn’t convinced I had it in me to give Lance what he wanted.
But my heart had finally won the battle and talked me into taking the risk.
I wasn’t sure how to be in a relationship, but I knew for certain I didn’t want to lose the chance to take that journey with Lance.
Three, I was scared as fuck.