Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
VIOLET
"And that's the last of it," I say, setting down a box of books in Hudson's living room. My living room now, too, I remind myself. The stunning platinum rings on my finger catch the light, still foreign and fascinating on my hand.
Hudson carries in my suitcase, his movements efficient and careful. "You travel light."
"Didn't seem necessary to bring everything right away," I tell him, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "Just the essentials for now."
In truth, I wasn't sure how much space to claim in his life. Our arrangement might be temporary, but six months is still a substantial amount of time. Long enough for my heart to get dangerously entangled if I'm not careful.
That kiss at the courthouse still burns on my lips. I expected something light, just for show. What I got instead was a claiming that weakened my knees and scattered my thoughts. Even now, watching him move around the house—our house—sends little thrills of electricity through my body.
"Let me show you the guest room," Hudson says, heading for the stairs. "You can get settled in before dinner."
I freeze, my hands still on the box of books. "Guest room?"
He turns back, brow furrowed. "Yeah, down the hall from the girls' rooms. It's comfortable. Has its own bathroom."
"Hudson," I say slowly, "we need to sleep in the same room."
His eyes widen fractionally. "The girls aren't here. We don't need to pretend."
"It's not about pretending right now. It's about preparation.
" I straighten, crossing my arms. "If we're going to make this convincing, we need to be comfortable around each other by the time the girls come home this weekend.
We can't suddenly start sharing a bed then and expect it to seem natural. "
He rubs the back of his neck, considering. "The girls won't know—"
"Kids are perceptive," I counter. "Especially Silvie. If we're awkward around each other, she'll notice."
"Violet," he sighs, setting my suitcase down. "I'm trying to respect boundaries here."
"I appreciate that," I say, stepping closer to him. "But this arrangement won't work if we're tiptoeing around each other. We need to commit fully. Half measures will only make us look suspicious."
His dark eyes search my face, seeking something. "You're sure about this?"
"I've been taking care of my father for years," I tell him honestly. "All while feeling utterly alone in my own home. I don't want to feel that way with my husband, even if our marriage is... unconventional."
His expression softens at the word "husband." His shoulders relax slightly, and he nods. "Alright. Master bedroom it is."
I grab my suitcase before he can, feeling a small victory. "Show me the way, Big Guy."
The nickname draws a ghost of a smile from him as he leads me up the stairs. The second floor is spacious, with a wide hallway and several doors. He points them out as we pass.
"Lucy's room, painted pink because she insisted. Angie's room with the bay window. Silvie's at the end of the hall. She likes her privacy."
The master bedroom is at the opposite end, giving the impression of two distinct zones—the girls' area and the parents'. The thought makes my stomach flutter. Parents. Hudson and me.
The bedroom itself is huge, with vaulted ceilings and windows that showcase the mountain view. A massive king-sized bed dominates one wall, flanked by matching nightstands. The room is undeniably masculine with dark woods and navy blue accents, but tastefully done.
"Bathroom through there," Hudson indicates a door on the right. "Walk-in closet on the left."
I set my suitcase near the closet, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of what we're doing. I'm moving into a man's home—a man I met less than a week ago—as his wife.
"I cleared out some drawers for you," Hudson says, pointing to a dresser. "And half the closet is empty. Figured, if anyone checks, better that your stuff’s in here."
"Thank you," I say softly, touched by his consideration.
"I'll let you get settled," he backs toward the door. "I need to... start dinner."
I nod, not missing how his eyes dart to the bed and quickly away. This is strange for both of us.
Once he's gone, I sit on the edge of the bed, testing its firmness. Perfect, not too soft but still comfortable. I bounce a little, feeling ridiculous but unable to help myself. A nervous giggle escapes me.
I'm married. To Hudson Wilder. Mountain man extraordinaire.
I open my suitcase and begin the task of unpacking, the mundane activity grounding me. Clothes into drawers and the closet. Toiletries to the bathroom. Books on the empty shelf he's cleared for me.
The bathroom makes me pause. It's as luxurious as the bedroom, with a soaking tub and a separate shower large enough for two. I arrange my limited beauty products beside his simple lineup of toiletries, the domestic intimacy of it making my cheeks warm.
When I return to the bedroom, I notice the bedding for the first time. It has a plush comforter in dark blue, and far too many pillows for a single man. Did he add those for me? The thought is oddly touching.
I change into more comfortable clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater—and head downstairs to find Hudson.
He's in the kitchen, slicing vegetables. The sight of this big, gruff man preparing food so carefully makes something in my chest twist pleasantly.
"Need help?" I offer, coming to stand beside him.
He glances at me, then back to his task. "I've got it. You've had a big day."
"We both have," I remind him. "Let me help."
After a moment's consideration, he slides the cutting board toward me. "You can finish these while I start the chicken."
We work in companionable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds the rhythmic chopping and the sizzle of the pan as Hudson adds the chicken.
"This feels strangely normal," I comment, surprised by how easy it is to move around him in the kitchen, as if we've done this a hundred times before.
His lips twitch. "You expected it to be weird?"
"Marrying a man I've known for less than a week? Yeah, a little weird." I bump his hip with mine playfully, then freeze, suddenly unsure if such casual contact is welcome.
But Hudson just nudges me back, his expression softening. "Fair point, Goldie."
The nickname warms me from the inside out. I hand him the chopped vegetables, and our fingers brush. That same electric current passes between us, and I know he feels it too from the way his eyes darken slightly.
We manage to get through dinner preparation and the meal itself without further incident, though I'm hyperaware of his every movement, his every glance. The conversation flows easier than expected, covering safe topics like my writing assignments, his work schedule, plans for the house.
It's afterward, as we're cleaning up, that reality sets in again.
"So," I say, drying a plate, "what's your bedtime routine like? I don't want to disrupt your schedule."
Hudson pauses in scrubbing a pan. "Usually watch some TV, maybe read. Nothing fancy."
"I'm a reader too," I tell him, pleased by this small commonality.
"I noticed the books you brought," he says. "Some good ones in there."
I smile, oddly touched that he paid attention. "What are you reading currently?"
He hesitates, as if embarrassed. "Just some carpentry stuff. Techniques for custom furniture."
"That's impressive," I say genuinely. "I'd love to see your work sometime."
"Maybe," he allows, but I can tell he's pleased by my interest.
By the time we finish cleaning up, it's after nine. The awkwardness returns as we stand at the bottom of the stairs, both aware of what comes next.
"I usually shower at night," I tell him. "If that's okay?"
"Go ahead," he nods. "I'll lock up down here."
The hot shower helps ease my nerves, but only temporarily. When I emerge, wrapped in a fluffy towel, I realize I've left my pajamas in the bedroom. Taking a deep breath, I open the bathroom door.
Hudson is sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to me, head bowed slightly. He's already changed into sleep pants and a tight t-shirt that showcases his muscular back and shoulders. The sight makes my mouth go dry.
"Just need to grab my pajamas," I say, my voice higher than normal.
He turns slightly, then quickly faces away again when he sees me in just a towel. "Take your time."
I grab what I need and scurry back to the bathroom, my heart pounding. This is ridiculous. We're adults. Married adults, technically. And yet we're acting like shy teenagers.
When I come out again, properly dressed in cotton shorts and a tank top, Hudson has moved to the far side of the bed, a book in his hands. He glances up, his eyes darkening as they take in my bare legs.
"Which side do you prefer?" he asks, voice rough.
"I usually sleep on the left," I admit.
"Perfect. I take the right."
Another small compatibility that shouldn't please me as much as it does.
I slip under the covers on my side, the bed so large there's a good two feet between us. "This is a really comfortable mattress."
"Memory foam," he says, setting his book aside. "Got it when I built the house."
"You really built this entire place yourself?"
He nods, a hint of pride in his expression. "Every board, every nail. Took almost two years."
"That's incredible, Hudson." I prop myself up on one elbow, genuinely impressed. "Most men can barely hang a picture frame straight."
A small chuckle escapes him, the sound warming me. "I've always been good with my hands."
The innocent statement takes on new meaning in the intimacy of our shared bed. My cheeks flush, and I see his ears redden slightly.
"I should turn out the light," he says, reaching for the lamp.
"Wait," I blurt out. "Can we talk for a bit? I don't think I'll sleep right away."
He hesitates, then settles back against the headboard. "Sure."
"Tell me about your work schedule," I suggest, needing something neutral to focus on. "So I know what to expect."