Two
Present day
Rowan
I pry open one eye, immediately regret the life choices that brought me to this moment, and snap it shut. My stomach does a sickening roll, so I lie completely still and breathe through my nose until the nausea backs off enough for a second attempt.
The ceiling is wrong. Mine is high and white with exposed beams, but this one is smooth charcoal gray with an expensive-looking light fixture hanging dead center.
Maybe I redecorated.
No.
Even on my best day, I don’t have that kind of initiative.
I squint around at gray walls, floor-to-ceiling curtains, and dark wood furniture. There are no clothes tossed over chairs or half-finished canvases leaning against baseboards. I don’t recognize a single thing in this room.
My heart gives a hard thud. Where the hell am I?
I look down and realize I’m wearing a giant navy T-shirt that covers most of my thighs. Pulling the collar away from my chest, I let out a sigh of relief when I find my underwear still on.
This is why I don’t usually drink tequila.
I remember Madison and Beckett’s engagement party and three bright pink margaritas that tasted like juice. Piper warned me they were lethal, but I was confident. Now, a massive chunk of last night is missing from my memory.
It’s only when I find the nerve to look to my right that I spot the shoulder. A broad, bare shoulder disappearing beneath a navy duvet.
I lean sideways to get a better angle, but a sharp ache in my hip makes me wince.
“Excuse me,” I whisper to the back of his head. “Hello?”
Nothing.
The shoulder is attached to an equally bare back. He’s lying on his stomach, facing away from me, with one arm tucked beneath his pillow.
There’s a naked man in this bed.
Maybe he’s lovely. Maybe we exchanged names. What if I gave him a fake name? What if I spent the night convincing a stranger that my name is Beyoncé?
I clear my throat. “Excuse me. Sir?”
He doesn’t even twitch.
Oh my God, what if he’s dead?
How could I have killed him? Sex? Is it physically possible for me to kill a man with sex? Unlikely, based on my historical performance, but tequila changes a person.
I lean closer and notice the slow, steady rise and fall of his back. Not dead. Great. Though honestly, a corpse would be easier to navigate than whatever awkward conversation is coming.
I extend a finger and jab his shoulder. The muscle is warm and rock-hard.
“Mr. Stranger Sir?”
He makes a low, irritated noise into the pillow.
“Sorry,” I blurt. “Hi. I just need you to wake up because I don’t know where I am and I think we may have—”
He rolls over.
“AAAAAAAAAH!”
Hudson Vaughn bolts upright so fast that his forehead nearly takes out my nose. “What the fuck?”
I scream again and scramble backward. “Hudson?”
“What the hell are you doing in here?” he barks, blinking against the light.
“What am I doing in here? What are you doing in here?”
“This is my bed.”
“I’m aware of that now.”
He throws the duvet aside and swings his legs out.
Oh, sweet Jesus. He’s in gray boxer briefs—all long legs, thick thighs, and a broad chest with a trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband.
I slam both hands over my eyes. “Put clothes on.”
“This is my house.”
“I don’t care whose house it is. Your thighs are out.”
“You’re the one in my bed.”
“Clothes, Hudson!”
“Stop shouting!”
“I’m sorry, but I just woke up next to my mother’s psychiatrist.”
“I am not your mother’s psychiatrist.”
I peek between my fingers. He’s standing on the far side of the bed, utterly bewildered. I’ve never seen him like this. Normally, Hudson is immaculate and infuriatingly calm. Right now, he’s barefoot, half-naked, with aggressive bedhead, glaring at me with pale blue eyes.
He scrubs both hands over his face. “What are you doing in here?”
“I don’t know! What are you doing in here?”
His hands drop. “It’s my bedroom.”
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“I put you in the guest room last night.”
I pause. “Then why am I in your bed?”
“I don’t know, Rowan. I was unconscious.”
I stare at him. He stares back. We both look down at the bed. The sheets are tangled around my legs, and one of his pillows lies on the floor.
“I went to sleep alone,” Hudson says slowly.
“Congratulations.”
“In this bed.”
“Thrilled for you.”
“You were asleep across the hall.”
“Apparently, I migrated.”
“Apparently.”
A horrifying thought strikes me. “Did we have sex?”
His head jerks back. “No.”
“You sound offended.”
“I’m just sure.”
“How?”
He narrows his eyes. “Because I was sober.”
“Rude.”
His mouth twitches. “I would remember if we had sex, and I can assure you, we didn’t.”
I scoff. “You don’t have to sound so relieved.”
“I woke up thirty seconds ago to a woman screaming in my face. I’m confused.”
“Why am I wearing your shirt?”
He squints at my chest.
I immediately pull the duvet up to my chin. “Stop looking at my breasts.”
His eyes snap to mine. “I’m not looking at your breasts.”
“Good.”
When he closes his eyes, I can practically see him calculating whether his medical license prohibits him from strangling me.
Some memories of last night come rushing back. They’re just bits and pieces, but they explain my change of clothes.
“I spilled a drink on myself.”
“You needed something to sleep in.”
“Oh. That’s considerably less scandalous.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
I flip him off. “Careful, Shrink Wrap.”
A dangerous smile forms at the corner of his mouth.
“What?” I ask quickly.
“It’s just interesting that you remember that.”
My stomach drops. “Remember what?”
His smile grows.
“Why did I call you Shrink Wrap?” I whisper.
“You don’t remember?”
“Would I be asking if I remembered?”
He leans against his dresser, thoroughly enjoying himself. “I found you outside the bar last night sitting on a fire hydrant with your heels in your hands.”
I shake my head. “You’re confusing me with someone else.”
“Not many redheads call me Shrink Wrap.” He reaches for a pair of dark pants on the chair. “I was leaving the party when I saw you.”
I stare at the wall. “I need to die.”
“Not yet. It gets better.”
My head snaps around. “There’s more?”
“You told me you were bendy.”
“I did not.”
“You grabbed my jacket, pulled me down until our noses were touching, and said—very seriously—’Do you know how bendy I am, Shrink Wrap?’”
My mouth hangs open.
Hudson steps into his pants like he isn’t currently destroying my will to live. “You also offered to demonstrate… in the street.”
“Stop.”
“You took your coat off.”
“Hudson.”
“And attempted a split.”
“Stop talking.”
“I caught you.”
“Thank you. Conversation over.” I grab a pillow and smash it over my face. “Kill me. You’re a doctor. You have access to things.”
“That’s illegal.”
“Show some initiative.”
His laugh echoes in the room. It’s a sexy laugh. I hate it.
“What happened after that?” I mumble into the pillow.
“I put you in my car to take you home, but you fell asleep before we hit the main road. I didn’t know where you lived.”
I slowly lower the pillow. “So you brought me to your house?”
“I wasn’t going to leave you in the driveway.”
“You could’ve called Madison.”
“I did.” He grabs a white shirt. “She didn’t answer. Neither did Piper. I wasn’t going to drive around waiting for you to wake up, so I brought you here and left them a voicemail.”
I grimace. “And you put me in the guest room?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“And then I sleepwalked across the hall and broke into your bed?”
He slides an arm into his sleeve. “That appears to be the sequence of events.”
“How did you not wake up?”
“I’m a deep sleeper.”
“You’re a psychiatrist. What if a patient tries to murder you?”
“I try not to make a habit of inviting them over.”
“Good policy.”
“Until last night.”
“Fuck off.”
He smirks again.
I throw the duvet aside and swing my legs out. The moment my feet hit the floor, my left hip pops and my ankle throbs. I try to stand, but the room tilts ninety degrees, forcing me to sit back down.
Hudson watches me.
“I can tell you’re about to doctor me,” I warn him.
“I was going to suggest moving a little slower.”
I try again, waiting for the floor to stabilize before limping across the hall.
The guest room has warm wood, cream walls, and a window overlooking green gardens. My clothes are neatly folded on a chair, my heels set together beneath it.
I change out of his T-shirt before pulling on my jeans, but my hip catches halfway, sending a sharp pain down my leg. I grit my teeth and yank them up anyway.
“You’re limping again,” Hudson says from the doorway.
Ignoring him, I grab my heels and refuse to acknowledge the condition of my joints.
It’s been a year since Hudson walked into my parents’ house during one of Mom’s manic episodes.
He was supposed to be a one-off favor for Beckett, but because my mother has never met a boundary she couldn’t lovingly bulldoze, she started calling him for everything.
New meds? Hudson. Bad side effect? Hudson.
Three nights of insomnia? Call the nice doctor.
He keeps answering. He’s a decent guy like that, which is annoying.
But here’s the thing about Donna Callahan: she collects strays.
Feral cats, lost dogs, broken humans. When we were kids, Noah brought his friend Griffin over for dinner, and Mom adopted him on the spot.
Hudson is just her latest acquisition. The poor bastard doesn’t even realize he’s in the system yet.
“Okay,” I say, clutching my heels. “I’m leaving.”
Hudson steps back to give me room.
It’s ridiculous for a man to look that good in a half-buttoned shirt at eight in the morning.
“Thank you for not leaving me on a hydrant,” I say as I pass. “And for the T-shirt. And for the bed I hijacked. We will never speak of this again.”
“Naturally.”
I head for the stairs before my hungover brain processes the scent of him. Fucking head doctors. Of course he smells good.
His townhouse is gorgeous, too. It’s open and bright, with morning light spilling across oak floors, a deep green sofa, and wall-to-wall bookshelves. It looks lived-in and comfortable. I expected cold, clinical sterility. Instead, the man has houseplants. Healthy ones.
Psychopath.
I’m halfway to the front door when it flies open.
“You better be ready for breakfast,” a man’s voice yells.
Before Hudson can reply, a toddler with dark curls comes tearing around the corner and launches herself at his knees. Hudson scoops her up, lifting her onto his hip without missing a beat. His whole face softens.
“Morning,” he murmurs, kissing her head.
Oh, come on! He is not allowed to be good with kids.
A guy carrying two takeout coffees walks in next. He looks like Hudson, just with the exhausted look of a parent. He freezes, taking in my bare feet and Hudson’s half-buttoned shirt. A wide grin spreads across his face.
“Josh, don’t,” Hudson warns.
“I haven’t said a word.”
“You’re about to.”
“I’m actually exercising remarkable levels of restraint.”
The little girl points a small finger at me. “Who dat?”
“Rowan,” Hudson tells her.
“Ro-an.”
“That’s me,” I say weakly.
“This is Maya,” Hudson says. “And the guy enjoying himself too much is my brother.”
I’m barely able to meet his eyes. “Hi.”
Josh finally loses the battle against his own face and starts laughing.
Hudson gives him a flat look. “We were meeting for breakfast.”
“We were,” Josh agrees.
“So why are you in my hallway?”
“I have a key, and you didn’t answer your phone.”
“I was sleeping.”
Josh eyes my appearance. “Right. Sleeping.”
I cover my face with both hands. “This is a nightmare.”
Probably thinking I’m sad, Maya reaches her arms out toward me.
“What does she want?” I ask.
“To be held,” Hudson says.
“By me?”
“You’re the new person.”
“I look like a corpse.”
“She’s two. Her standards are low.”
I reluctantly hold out my hands as Hudson carefully transfers her over, keeping one hand on her back until I have a firm grip.
She smells like baby shampoo.
“Hi,” I whisper.
She touches a strand of my hair. “Red.”
“Very good.”
“Pretty.”
My chest twinges. “Okay, you’re my new favorite person.”
God, I love babies. They’re so cute and funny and—
I suddenly remember I’m ovulating, panic, and hand her straight back to Hudson.
When his phone dings, he checks the screen and winces. “Your sister is outside.”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
Awesome.
I say a quick goodbye to Josh and Maya, yank open the front door, and step onto the porch to see Madison’s car idling at the curb. Piper is in the passenger seat, her mouth wide open.
Hudson steps out behind me, still casually unbuttoned.
For three terrifying seconds, no one moves.
Then Piper’s face crumples.
“Don’t,” I warn, pointing a finger at her. “Don’t you dare.”
It’s no use because she folds in half. Madison clamps a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently as she rolls down the window.
“Rowan,” Madison wheezes. “Why is your top inside out?”
I look down. My silk camisole is, in fact, inside out.
Piper laughs so hard she falls against the dashboard, while Madison drops her head onto the steering wheel.
I turn around to face Hudson. “Thank you for everything. I hope we never speak again.”
He dips his chin, eyes gleaming with humor. “My pleasure, Littlest Callahan.”
I don’t have an adequate response, so I give him the finger. His deep laugh follows me all the way down the walkway.
“Not a word,” I tell my traitorous sisters as I yank open the car door and practically hurl myself inside.
Piper turns around in her seat, face bright red. “Ro—”
“Not one word, Piper, I swear to God.”
Madison puts the car in drive. For four blessed seconds, there’s silence. I press my forehead against the cool glass, close my eyes, and pray they’ve developed human empathy.
Piper snorts.
I open one eye.
She completely loses her mind again. Madison joins in, tears streaming down her face as she steers onto the main road.
“Fuck both of you!” I yell, kicking the back of Piper’s seat and sliding as low into the leather as I can.