Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
HUDSON
Istand in the foyer of the house and get as dry as I can before I traipse around.
The first weekend in December brings a chill sheet of rain that feels like a million icy razors piercing your skin.
Can’t safely harvest trees in this, so I’m home early, which works great.
I can prepare for the girls to arrive tonight.
I shook my head on the way home, seeing the Christmas lights and decorations already lining people’s roofs and porches. Thanksgiving was literally days ago. They don’t waste time.
Sighing, I rub my fingers through my wet hair, slicking it back. It’s getting long, hanging at the nape of my neck. I focus back on the upcoming holiday. I should get a plan going for the girls.. Once Lucy sees other folks’ homes decorated, I won’t hear the end of it.
I’m fixing a quick late lunch when three sharp knocks sound from the front door.
“The fuck?” I mumble.
The girls aren’t due till later. And neither of their little fists knocks in that manner. I don’t have friends. I don’t socialize unless I have to, which is mostly for work. I’m far up the mountain, so you wouldn’t be here unless it’s on purpose.
Narrowing my eyes, I approach cautiously, straining to pick up on any familiar tells. My gut clenches at the intrusive idea. What if Black Feral is here to give me shit? Just when I gained more access to the girls. Is this Kristy pulling some shit?
At the door, I look through the peephole. My body jerks back. The last thing I expect to see is a bright face, beautiful features, short, shoulder-length blonde-haired woman. What’s a woman–a young woman–doing at my door? Maybe she went hiking and got lost?
Hiking in winter, Hud? For fuck’s sake.
I pull open the door and have a full-bodied reaction.
The quick peek through the peephole did not do her justice.
Face-to-face, I’m fighting baser needs. She’s got curves that are perfectly wrapped in her simple, brown overalls.
Her chest and hips, fighting against the corduroy hold.
Even with the coat and scarf, her cleavage is pushed over the neckline of her beige shirt underneath.
Full peach lips, lightly glossed with something, big blue eyes, and flushed, rosy cheeks and nose from the chill. Who the fuck is this angel?
My eyes flick down to the pie and the covered tray of cookies she’s carrying. Solicitor? I’m not buying cookies. Christmas isn’t even here. Damn. Let us settle into it being December for a second.
As beautiful as this golden angel is, self-preservation has me slamming the door on whatever it is she’s forcing me to feel. Literally.
“Not interested,” I grunt, closing the door on her widening eyes. I ignore the ache that shoots through my chest.
I turn to finish prepping lunch. Knock knock.
Groaning at my feet, my jaw ticks as I pivot and open the door again.
“Hi,” she breathes out, and her voice’s melodic sweetness, for some reason, irritates me more. “I saw your ad,” she rushes.
“Wrong house,” I repeat and close the door.
I need to put distance between whatever that was. Now.
“For fuck’s sake,” I growl at her insistent attempt as once again, she knocks. “Relentless angel.”
When I open it a third time, she sticks her hiking boot inside to block the door from closing. I raise my brows, surprised by her determination.
“Please, hear me out,” she pleads sweetly, but underneath, I catch the frustration. I almost smile.
“I know you’re relying on the official process from the agency, but I am absolutely sure I’m the best candidate.”
I cross my arms. Maybe she’s high on something. She must be because she’s speaking absolute nonsense.
“Goldie, I have not a damn clue what you’re talking about.” I peek around her and notice an old, beat-up Ford. “Are you okay to drive?”
Her full, arched brows frown. “Yes, of course. I have an excellent driving record. I can provide documentation, references, anything you need.” She looks down at what she’s carrying.
“Hungry? Fresh, homemade chicken pot pie,” she lifts the dish.
“And, tis the season, right? Never too early for my frosted brownie Christmas cookies.” The other plate is covered with plastic wrap.
My stomach, the traitor, chooses that moment to make it known I haven’t had a proper meal since breakfast. Yesterday.
But, no. I have shit to do. And this angel has the wrong house.
“I think you have me mistaken for someone el–”
“Hudson Wilder, currently looking for a mail-order bride through Ever After Mountain Match, and I know I’m not doing this through the right channels, but I wanted to discuss possibly–”
I raise my hand. “Wait.” The back of my mind tingles. “The hell did you say?”
Her body betrays her confident stance with a full-body shiver, and I remember, it’s almost fucking winter, high altitude, making the cold sharper.
“Shit,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. It’s cold. You’re shivering. Come inside.”
Against my better judgment, I open the door, letting her in. Her face breaks out into a smile so bright, the golden rays of the sun can’t compete. She bounces inside, using each foot to pull off her boots at the door. Closing it, I immediately take the dishes out of her hands.
“Thank you,” she smiles sweetly, her voice delicate.
I grunt in acknowledgment, watching her shrug off the coat and scarf, revealing more mouth-watering curves straining against those damn overalls. Possibly the least sexy outfit, some might say, but this bright angel could walk around in a burlap sack and heads would turn.
She fluffs that short, golden blonde hair, then takes the dishes from my hand. “Kitchen?” she asks, already heading further inside the house.
Her bright blue eyes take in every inch I meticulously designed with my girls in mind. She finds the kitchen and smiles wider, if that’s possible, setting the plates down on the island counter.
“This house is absolutely stunning, Mr. Wilder.
“Hudson,” I rasp.
She’s young. I don’t know how old, but too damn young for me to be feeling this pull. Yet, hearing her call me so formally only makes me feel older. I want to cut that divide as much as possible.
“Hudson,” she nods. “I’m Violet. Violet Huxley. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Mind if I serve you a plate?”
“Goldie, listen.” The nickname slips naturally. I ignore the curiosity that bleeds in her eyes while that soft smile paints those full peach lips that call to me. Trouble.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding. I have a phone call I need to make.”
The rain has dissipated, but the roads are going to be slick, especially heading down the mountain. No fucking way that beat up old Ford won’t be slipping and sliding into rocks or a ditch.
“If you need a ride back with the roads being what they are…I can see what I can do,” I reluctantly offer.
Just imagining being trapped in the small confines of my truck, enveloped in her sunflower scent, would be sweet torture I’d hate myself later for when I’m up at night, obsessing, tempted. I’ve kept away from temptation for years. I’m done letting women manipulate me. My girls need their father.
“I saw your ad,” she continues, ignoring my offer, “and I’m not sure what you’re looking for, but I believe we could help each other.” She opens cabinets, instinct taking her to the correct ones where I have plates, cups, then she’s opening drawers, finding the utensils.
“I told you, this is a misunderstanding. My lawyer has a death wish and did something I never gave him permission to do. I’m sorry for wasting your time,” I inch closer toward the door, pushing a not-so-subtle hint. Which she is blatantly ignoring.
She grins, and I see it. A mischievous angel. There’s some fire under all that sugar. Like my Lucy, sugar and spice. God help me. I need this woman out of my house. Out of my mind.
Violet. Her name is Violet. She’s a perfect blend of golden summer and violet wildflowers. That’s exactly how she smells, too, like sunflowers and wildflowers blended together.
Violet sets a plate with a large slice of chicken pot pie. The steam from the still-hot dish wafts into my kitchen, then the smell hits me. I groan. Hell, that smells fantastic. At my reaction, she smiles, causing the blues in her eyes to twinkle like damn Christmas lights.
She opens my fridge and peruses. “Water or beer?” she asks.
My body has a life of its own while my brain fights the losing battle. I move into the kitchen, grumpy and dragging, being equally pulled in by the savory, seasoned scents of that freaking pie. I heavily sit my ass on the barstool.
“Coke,” I grunt.
“Perfect,” she laughs, and I might die and let her angelic guidance take me to heaven…or hell, honestly. “Crisp, cold, and sweet to cut the savory richness.”
I watch, dumbfounded as she does the wild action of reaching up on tiptoes to grab a glass from the cabinet.
The beige long-sleeve under her brown overalls rids up, revealing soft, creamy skin I want to sink my fingers into.
Clearing my throat, I take my eyes off her and focus on studying the layers of this pie.
“You could’ve just popped the can and given it to me,” I tell her, taking the fork and piercing the buttery crust.
“Sure, when you’re out and about, but this is your home, Hudson.
” Damn, my name rides off her tongue like it was meant to mold the two syllables.
“I make a point of enjoying the little things in life. It may seem like a luxury, but I believe that how we treat ourselves in our own home, when no one is watching, sets a precedent for how we carry ourselves in life.”
“How old are you?” I ask, surprised by her profound philosophy.
“Twenty-two,” she continues to smile, setting a napkin next to my glass, filled with ice and Coke.
“Shit,” I almost choke, leaning back in the stool.
“The application mentioned you’re older,” she starts.
“Way fucking older, Goldie.”
Her head tilts at the nickname. “Sixteen years is nothing.”