Eighteen
Rowan
Hudson is unpacking my eggs.
This is fucking weird.
I lean against the sink and watch him. He moves through my kitchen with an efficiency that’s offensive given his size, slotting the almond milk carton into the door and lining up my apples as if he’s setting up a display.
Before I can mock his unpacking skills, a chorus of screeching meows erupts outside.
I grin. “You get to meet the family.”
Ignoring the throb in my hip, I yank open the cabinet, grab two plastic bowls, and shove them into his hands.
“Water,” I command, pointing at the faucet. “Fill ‘em up. Dave gets thirsty.”
Hudson blinks down at the bowls. “Dave?”
“You’ll see.”
I haul the sack of kibble over to the back door with a grunt, ignoring the warning look he shoots me.
“Back up, freeloaders,” I tell the cats, dropping to the floor to scoop food.
Hudson crouches beside me, his long legs bent awkwardly in the tight space as he sets the water down.
“Roll call.” I point my scoop at a fat orange tabby faceplanting into the kibble. “That’s Barnaby. Union leader. The gray one with the missing ear is One-Eye. And do you see the one enthusiastically licking his balls? That’s Dave.”
Hudson makes a face. “I can see why he gets thirsty.”
“Oh, and the one scaling your leg is Toast.”
Toast—a tiny tuxedo kitten—is actively climbing his slacks like a tree trunk.
I wink at him. “See? Very climbable.”
The corner of his mouth curls into a smirk as he scoops the kitten into his palm and lifts her to eye level. Toast lets out a tiny squeak and starts purring.
Right on cue, Brenda—a massive calico—shambles over and aggressively rubs her weight against Hudson’s other ankle.
My jaw drops. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. Traitors.”
Even One-Eye leans in for a scratch behind the ear.
I wonder if Hudson could stroke my kitty like that?
Oh. My. God.
My thighs squeeze together.
Where are these thoughts coming from? Has it really been that long since I’ve been touched, or is it just his hands? He has incredible hands.
Yep. Definitely the hands.
I need to stop spending time with this man.
“You okay?” he asks, noticing my silence. “You’re flushed.”
No, Hudson, I’m imagining those fingers stroking me from the inside.
“I’m fine,” I say instead, clearing my throat.
After he gently sets Toast back down, we both stand. He’s right there, towering over me, smelling like… him. It’s his cologne and whatever soap he washed with this morning. He’s close enough that I can catch the dark shadow of stubble along his jawline.
I lift my chin, keeping my voice steady. “Can I have my studio key back? As you can see, I’m alive and plan on staying that way.”
He looks down at me through those black frames, then pulls the silver key from his pocket and holds it out.
I reach for it, but his fingers tighten around the metal.
I tug. Nothing.
“Hudson. Give.”
“One condition.”
“What?”
“I want to see what you’re working on.”
I drop my hand like the metal burned me. “No.”
He drops the key back into his pocket. “Then the studio stays locked.”
“You can’t hold my studio hostage!” I step into his space, poking him squarely in the chest. “That’s extortion! Or being a massive prick!”
He leans down until we’re eye level, a flash of pure amusement in his eyes. “You crashed my work. I’m crashing yours.”
My brain searches for a loophole, but there isn’t one. I need those keys. The brain fog has lifted, and my fingers are itching to push paint around until the noise in my head stops. If I don’t paint today, I’ll crawl out of my skin.
“Fine.”
We navigate the sea of eating cats and walk down the gravel path to the warehouse next door. My palms are sweating. I don’t show people unfinished work. Ever.
Hudson steps inside the warehouse, taking in the cluttered benches and the row of flipped canvases facing the wall.
In the center of the room sits my main easel.
It’s a massive canvas layered in deep yellow and raw umber, split down the middle by a jagged streak of white. It’s loud and raw and nowhere near finished.
I stand back, arms crossed tightly over my chest, waiting for the verdict. He’s probably going to tell me it looks like a physical manifestation of an unhinged psyche.
I hold my breath.
Hands slipping into his pockets, he walks slowly toward the painting and studies it.
The silence stretches.
“It’s not finished. The upper third needs more depth, and the white line is too sharp. I need to soften the edges with a dry brush, and—”
“Don’t,” Hudson says softly.
“Don’t what?” I whisper.
“Don’t apologize for it.” His voice is completely devoid of the teasing edge I’m used to. “It’s brilliant, Rowan.”
I don’t know what to do with that. “You’re just saying that so I don’t hiss at you again.”
He tilts his head. “I like when you hiss at me.”
His gaze drops to my lips. My fingers twitch at my sides with a sudden, dangerous urge to touch him.
I forget how to breathe as I watch him reach out and gently trace the dried streak of blue paint on my wrist, just above the cuff of my sleeve.
“You’re not shit, Littlest Callahan,” he whispers, a slow smile breaking across his face. “Now go paint.”