2. Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Hudson
Now
“How was your date last night?” I ask, pushing through the door of my building. into the stifling, mid-summer heat, and blinding Queen’s sunlight.
My best friend, Finnley, fills the screen on my phone, and I can tell that she’s got her iPhone propped next to her on the seat, because it's tipped at an odd angle as she drives. I can see her profile, her thick chocolate colored braid over her shoulder and most of the headliner of her baby blue 1992 Volvo 740 Turbo.
She’s got a half-empty iced latte between her thighs, with one hand on the wheel while scarfing down what looks to be some kind of burrito in the other. Even from here I can see something—sour cream maybe—on her chin. She’s fucking adorable.
“Oh God,” She mumbles around a ridiculously large bite. “It was a disaster, Huddy. ”
At her admission, a wave of relief washes over me. That should be followed up by remorse for hoping every date she has is a disaster, but the feeling doesn’t come. It never does.
A chunk of something drops free from the paper-wrapped tortilla and plops straight onto her jeans. I chuckle to myself because she’s just always so damn disheveled.
“Oh, shit,” she mumbles and sets her wrap down, scooping up the rogue bite and popping it into her mouth with a lick to her fingers.
“What’s ‘oh shit’?” I ask, taking a right and heading in the direction of the park, one hand gripping the phone pointed at my face, and the other stuffed into the pocket of my workout shorts.
“I have to pee. And I just dropped some food on my jeans.” She blows a chunk of hair out of her eyes and flips on her blinker.
When she turns the wheel, I can see through the top sliver of windshield that she’s made a right and just passed under the wooden gateway arch leading to my family’s ranch. She picks up her food, taking another huge bite, before setting it down and swapping it to take a sip of her latte. She does all of this, her eyes never leaving the road. Jameson’s multitasking at its finest.
“Did you dose yourself for that cup of sugar you’re gulping down?” I’m mostly teasing, but Finnley has a habit of not paying close attention to her blood sugar when she’s got a lot going on. And lately, that’s been more often than not.
Even all the way from New York, it’s become a habit for me to check in on her health. She’s been diabetic since she was seven, and honestly, she’s never been great at taking care of herself.
Running Timber Haven Bed-and-Breakfast is her life. She takes her responsibility very seriously, but I can tell she’s over worked.
“Yes, Huddy.” Her tone is sing-song, like she’s humoring me .
I roll my eyes and reluctantly return to the topic of her date. “So, what was it this time?”
“Chicken Caesar wrap.”
“No,” I chuckle. “The date, Jameson. What was wrong with this one?”
“Oh, he had ridiculously small hands,” she says, around another huge bite, her tone disgusted.
“Not small hands,” I deadpan in a shocked whisper, and my voice comes out a little more labored now, as I’ve made it to the running trail near my condo. I switch over to my AirPods and picking up the pace, I start my run for the day.
“You’re out running late,” Finn says ignoring my quip and stuffing the last bite of her wrap into her mouth. Crumpling up the wrapper, she chucks it on the seat next to her.
I should hang up and focus on my run—I’ve been so stressed lately with the upcoming sale of my bar and running always helps—but with her schedule and mine, our recent conversations have been short, and I haven’t seen her since Christmas.
When I kissed her.
I cringe at the memory. Not because it was bad. It wasn’t. But it was done in a moment of weakness, six months ago, and even though I’m pretty sure some part of her was into it—if the little moan that escaped her lips was any indication, or the way her hips rocked against mine the tiniest bit—the way she high tailed it out of the living room and back to bed immediately after spoke volumes. I mean, we’re best friends. And best friends don’t kiss one another on the mouth. Even if every fiber of my being really wants to. It just complicates shit.
“I had a meeting with the bank this morning and didn’t have time earlier. Figured I’d get it in while there’s still daylight, but it's hotter than fuck out here.” I blow out a pent- up breath.
“Hang on,” she says and rolls to a stop, gulps down the rest of her coffee before turning the phone to the side so I can see the fields bathed in afternoon sunlight on the dirt road that leads to the ranch I grew up on. “Look at the calves, Huddy. Paige would love it.”
A three-rail wood fence runs along either side of the tree-lined road, five calves and their mamas graze just beyond it. They’re probably a month or so old, but still small enough that my six-year-old would be enamored by the babies.
I feel a stab of jealousy that she’s where she is, and I am…not. The place has always grounded me. I love New York, and while most of the years I’ve lived here have been good, I’m ready to be home .
“She really would,” I say.
“I better put my phone in the holder. Hank will punch me in the throat if I take out a fence.” She laughs and I do too because she’s not wrong.
My older brother Hank runs the ranch since my pop retired a handful of years ago, and he can be a bitchy asshole when he wants to be. Not that I’d blame him if she actually did take out a fence. Finn’s always been a decent driver, but her inability to properly navigate around curbs has been a running joke for years.
“So, back to Small Hands Guy. Was he really that bad?” I’m fishing, even though it makes me uncomfortable to know about her dates, I’d rather not let my imagination run wild.
I dodge a couple of dogs that dart across my path and their owner gives me an apologetic grimace as I wave and jog past her.
“No, I guess not,” she sighs and puts the car back into drive once her phone is stationary. “But Huddy, I swear, Paige has bigger hands than this guy. His handshake was so wimpy,” she laughs. “And you know what they say about a man’s hands, right? How can I have sex with a guy that has the hands of a six-year-old girl? ”
I make a choking sound. “First of all, let’s refrain from talking about sex and my daughter in the same sentence. Second, what do they say about a man’s hands?”
Her eyebrows shoot upward, and she flicks me a glance. “The size of a man’s hands is in direct correlation to the size of his junk. If his hands are that small, I don’t want to see what his dick looks like.” She makes a gagging noise, miming sticking her finger down her throat.
I screw up my face at the fact that I’m talking about the size of some random dude’s junk with Finn. “I thought that was shoe size?”
Another pressing question pops into my head and I force myself not to sound like a jealous boyfriend. “And who says you have to fuck him?”
Her face twists up in thought. “Oh. Well, maybe it is. Shit. Why didn’t I notice his feet?” She shrugs. “Oh well, it’s too late now, I already told him it wasn’t going to work out. But seriously, I need to get some action, and soon if you know what I mean. It’s like the Sahara over here.”
I groan internally. I really do not want to be having this conversation with her and I can feel my discomfort rising like bile in my throat. I force myself to focus on what’s in front of me and the cadence of my breathing evening out as I find my pace. “Wasn’t this a first date?”
“Well, yes, but what’s the point of dating if there isn’t the promise of sex at some point? I seriously doubt those itty-bitty digits of his could eke out any semblance of an orgasm.”
“For fuck’s sake, Finn.” I say, but I can’t help but laugh with relief.
“What?” she asks, shifting her car into park. “I’m a human being, Huddy. I have needs.” She says, and the camera moves all around as she gathers her things to get out of the car.
“Listen, I know you have sex, ok? I just…don’t need the details.” I move to the side of the trail and stop near a bench, a side stitch making it hard to breathe. Or maybe it’s the idea of her going on dates and potentially having sex with these guys. Guys who aren’t… me .
And it’s not just about sex. I can't stand the thought of someone else having her all to themselves. Having inside jokes and shit? Nah, I did that when she was married to her mama’s boy ex-husband. What a douche canoe that guy turned out to be. I just want her all to myself.
I really have got to get laid.
Next to my actual family, there’s no one I love more than Finnley Jameson. When her childhood friend, Wrenley, left for college there was an opening for her new best friend, and I took it.
I had a huge crush on her back then. She never wanted anything more with me and I realized I’d rather have her as a friend than not at all.
Lately though, I can’t seem to think about anything but getting her naked. And I can never, ever tell her how I feel. I mean, what would I even say? Anything I could say would fuck up everything. Sure, we’re both adults, and technically, I could tell her—see where it went—but Finnley Jameson means more to me that just getting my dick wet.
It’s definitely for the best that nothing went further the night of that kiss, especially since we’re going to be living in the same town again. Scratch that—in the same house for the foreseeable future.
So, I stick to asking about her dates, even if it makes my skin crawl, and hope to God that she doesn’t go into more detail than I’m comfortable with. Which is very little, if I’m honest with myself.
“That’s what I’m telling you. There are no details. Ever since Jeff it’s been dry spell after dry spell. It’s been three months since Mark, and he was a one-time thing. It’s all moths and cobwebs down there by now. At this rate I’m going to need a lifetime supply of batteries.”
“ Jesus, Finn.” I really didn’t need that visual while I’m in public. The last thing I need to do is pop a chub in the middle of a crowded Queens Park.
“What? I need to get laid. Hard and often. Preferably with someone who has big hands and an even bigger— ”
“Seriously. I’m gonna stop you right there.” I choke out a half laugh, half moan, but even as I do, I can’t help but look down at my hand hanging by my side. I lift it, turning it in the waning sunlight. I have pretty big hands. Don’t I?
Dumbass. Stop. Just stop.
Honestly, I feel like a gigantic dick because I secretly hope that none of these guys ever sticks. I can’t bear the thought of seeing her with someone else. She’s been my number one since we were kids. With the exception of my relationship with my daughter, ours is the most important relationship in my life.
I’d tried to kiss her once before too, years ago, right before I left for college. We’d both been drinking and as I’d gone to lean in, my foot caught on a tree root and my mouth just sort of collided with her eyebrow. Thank God she didn’t remember that the next day, because once I was sober, I’d realized how stupid it was to risk potentially ruining the best friendship I’d ever had.
Once I left for NYU, the distance was enough to keep my teen age crush from ruining our friendship. We eventually both married, but we stayed good friends. And that’s all we’ve ever been.
As far as Finn is concerned, I’d rather believe that she’s not capable of having sex. Or at the very least that she doesn’t need it. Like Komodo dragons or fucking worms. Not because she doesn’t have the ability, or because she’s unattractive or anything. She’s perfect. She’s gorgeous. I just don’t want to think about some dickbag putting his tiny little appendage anywhere near her sweet little—.
Stop. She’s your best friend.
“I’m here anyway.” She harrumphs and opens her door to get out. “Your mom and Wren are probably waiting to start the movie.”
I rub my forehead between my thumb and fingers, squeezing my eyes shut. “All right. Tell them hello for me. ”
“Ok, Huddy. Have a good run. Love you.” She blows a kiss at me.
“Love you too, Jameson.”
I switch over to music and Tricky by Run D.M.C. fills my ears. I pocket my phone and take off at a jog. People mill around the park just through the trees and I check the time on my watch. I have an hour to finish my run and get back home to shower before I have to be at my bar, Timber Haus Pub.
Only three more days before I hand over the keys to the new owner and just under two weeks to pack up our lives, before making the thirty-one-hour drive back home to Timber Forge. I’d considered hiring the moving company to drive our stuff to Montana while we flew, but the drive will give me and Paige some time to ourselves before the chaos of family and summer takes off.
Jameson offered her guest rooms, when the place I was planning to rent fell through at the last minute. The inspector found black mold in several rooms. There was no way in hell I was going to put my daughter in that situation. She’d probably grow a third eye or develop black lung or some shit. All she needs is more health problems.
Paige has struggled since her mom Tristen, and I split up two years ago. It started with nightmares and her refusing to eat regularly. She’s been in therapy, and things were looking up, until last summer, when Paige told me how much she wished we lived in Timber Forge. That coupled with her own diabetes diagnosis six months ago was enough of a push for me to make some changes. I’ve come to the realization pretty quickly that if there is ever another emergency with Paige, I have no support here. Without the bar, the cons of staying have started to outweigh the pros.
When Paige had gotten sick at school, collapsing on the playground just before Christmas, I couldn’t get to the hospital fast enough and I spent two excruciating hours pacing that bleak and cold as fuck hallway with no answers and even less hope. If Finn hadn’t been in town, I don’t know how I would have held it together. She spent those two hours in the hospital with me, getting coffee, calling my parents to relay information, and talking me off the proverbial ledge.
That was also when some kind of fucked-up switch in my brain blinked on and try as I might to keep my feelings for my best friend platonic, it wasn’t long before I was seeing Finn in a very different light. Seeing her mother my daughter better than Paige’s own mother ever did had done something to me. Not only was she great with Paige but having her there was a huge comfort to me as well.
We weren’t teenagers anymore and suddenly I started noticing how good she looked in those little sports bras she likes to call tank tops and those biker shorts that are more like underwear. And don’t even get me started on the tank top/panty combo she wears to bed. Or how the chocolate brown of her hair has a little undertone of red in it when the sunlight hits it just right. She’s got a tiny mole just above her lip that I never really paid much attention to before but now is somehow so fucking sexy I can hardly stand it.
I stop to stretch out a cramp in my calf before turning around and heading back to the condo when a text comes through from Paige letting me know she’s home. I’ll have just enough time for a shower before heading back out for the night.