Chapter 33
Sarah woke to the sound of running water.
For one disorienting second, she thought a pipe had burst. Memory flooded back.
Hudson.
She stayed where she was for another minute, listening to the shower through the wall, the domestic noise strangely comforting. Her head still ached, though less than yesterday, and the bruising across her ribs complained as she swung her legs over the side of the bed.
The house smelled of fresh coffee.
She padded down the hall. The kitchen stopped her in the doorway. Everything was clean and stacked away. The counters were wiped down. The flowers he’d bought sat in the middle of the table, catching the morning light.
It looked lived-in. Hudson had filled it with his presence.
The bathroom door opened behind her. She turned as Hudson stepped into the hallway, rubbing a towel over his damp hair.
He’d pulled on jeans, but his chest was bare. Water tracked slowly over the hard planes of his chest before disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
Oh.
Good God.
She suddenly understood the nurse at the hospital.
His eyes widened fractionally when he spotted her. “Sorry.” He scrubbed the towel over his hair. “Thought you were still asleep.”
There was a pale scar beneath his collarbone. Another disappeared around the side of his rib cage. Fifteen years had happened to him too.
She cleared her throat, which was suddenly less cooperative than usual.
“It’s fine.” She managed a shrug that tugged unpleasantly at her rib cage. “Least I could do after everything you’ve done is let you use the shower.”
The arm holding the towel dropped from his head to his side. “Thanks.”
The silence that followed felt too aware. Sarah turned back into the kitchen before her brain embarrassed her any further. She opened the cupboard for a mug. The stretch pulled sharply across her side and she hissed a breath of pain.
A hand appeared beside hers. “I’ve got it.”
Hudson reached past her, his arms brushing hers as he lifted the mug from the shelf.
“I could have reached that.”
“I know.” A smile tugged at his mouth, reaching his eyes.
He set the mug on the counter between them.
She turned to tell him she wasn’t made of glass, but the words never arrived.
He was standing so close that the bergamot soap he’d borrowed from her shower teased her nose. When she met his eyes, she glimpsed his tiredness after a night spent on her couch.
His gaze landed on the fading bruise along her cheek. His hand lifted, his thumb skimming beneath the bruise, careful on her tender skin. “How’s your head?”
She should have said better. Or it still hurts. But instead, she leaned into his hand. Only a fraction. It wasn’t even a decision.
His breath stalled—the smallest sound, and his thumb stilled against her skin.
For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved. He started to draw his hand away.
No.
She caught his wrist, and his eyes lifted to hers, a question in them. Her heart stumbled. Fifteen years of convincing herself she’d stopped missing him. Maybe she never had.
She closed the last inch between them.
His free hand settled carefully at her waist, avoiding the bruising as though he’d memorized where she hurt.
The first brush of his mouth against hers was feather-light, the warmth of him lingering just long enough to steal her breath.
Nothing like the desperate teenagers they’d once been in the stables.
His hand slid gently to the side of her neck, and his thumb stroked the sensitive skin beneath her ear. A shiver chased down her spine.
When he kissed her back, it was achingly tender. The kitchen disappeared. There was only Hudson.
She’d kissed men. None of them had ever felt like this. She smiled against his mouth, and his lips curved in return, his forehead bumping hers.
She drew back to look at him. Whatever they’d been before, this wasn’t pretending anymore.
Her phone rang, loud from the counter close by. Then rang again.
She exhaled. “I should...”
“You should,” he murmured, though he made no move to step away.
The phone rang a third time.
Neither of them moved.
Hudson pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Persistent.”
She laughed softly, still close enough that their noses brushed. “Sometimes I hate being the sheriff.” She rested her forehead against his for an extra stolen second.
His mouth curved against hers. “No, you don’t.”
“No.”
“That’s going to be Walter.”
She picked up her phone, the ghost of his hand against her cheek making her skin tingle.
She swiped to answer.
No caller ID.
“Sheriff Meyer.”
A man’s voice answered, and every trace of warmth left her body.
Her eyes met Hudson’s. “It’s Cord.”