The last time Hudson Miller awoke to the smell of his momma’s cooking, he’d been nineteen years old and had no idea what it truly meant to be homesick. He knew now. Had felt it down to his very bones over the past ten-plus years. Felt it every time he lay on a bunk in a third world country, dreaming of Mississippi summers and his momma’s peach pie.
He hadn’t been home in too damn long, so all he’d had to keep him company were his memories. His goals in the army had had him on a strict schedule—obtaining his degree by the time he pinned on sergeant so he could put in his OCS packet and work toward the ultimate goal of earning his captain’s bar. That meant little to no downtime. Because of that, once a year, he’d flown his momma and sister, Lilah, to wherever he was stationed at the time. They got to see the world, he got to see them, and all was right.
Except…
Except for the piece of his heart he’d left in Havenbrook. The piece that had never been the same since the day he’d left.
Hudson stretched, rubbing a hand over the dull ache in his chest, his feet hanging off the end of his childhood bed. At 6’4” and a hell of a lot bulkier than he’d been the last time he’d lain in this bed, he didn’t exactly fit on the twin mattress. Didn’t matter. He hadn’t slept on anything as comfortable as this for nine long months.
After donning a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt and making a pit stop in the bathroom, he descended the steps and followed the scent of French toast. Cinnamon roll French toast—his favorite—if his nose was to be trusted.
He was absolutely fucking famished. He hadn’t eaten much more than a bag of peanuts since midafternoon yesterday. After taking the red-eye from Seattle to Memphis, Hudson and his copilot, CW2 Caleb Bridges, rented a car and drove the hour and a half to Havenbrook. Got in just in time to intercept his sister arriving at The Sweet Spot to start the day’s morning prep. He’d set Caleb up in the guest room, not bothering to do anything but point and grunt toward the unused space, and fell straight into his bed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a solid six hours of sleep.
“’Bout time you joined us, sleepyhead,” his momma said over her shoulder as she stood in front of the stove. And, yep, cinnamon roll French toast sizzled on the griddle in front of her, along with a pan of scrambled eggs.
Hudson glanced around, lifting his chin in greeting to Caleb, who sat at the round table, already dressed for the day. He’d obviously showered, though he’d forgone the razor—something they both favored during their time off—a layer of black scruff covering his umber skin. He lifted a coffee cup in Hudson’s direction, his eyes clear of fatigue. Looked like the solid six had done the other soldier some good, too.
“Hey, Momma,” Hudson murmured, wrapping his arms around her shoulders from behind and tugging her back into him. Her dark hair, pulled up into a ponytail, was streaked with tiny slivers of gray, and he was sure those hadn’t been there the last time he’d seen her. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent that would always remind him of his childhood.
She exhaled a long, low breath and reached up to grip his forearm, her relief at his presence clear in the way her fingers dug into his skin. The way she sagged back into him.
Even though she supported him, sent him care package after care package, and was there to talk to him any time of the day or night he was able to call, she hated that he’d chosen this life. Chosen to devote himself to the army and his country. Especially since her husband had done the same.
But he hadn’t made it back.
Jack Miller had died in combat when Hudson was only ten, and he was a ghost Hudson’s momma had lived with for almost twenty years. A ghost Hudson had tried to live up to for just as long.
“You makin’ my favorite?” Hudson asked as he gave her another squeeze before letting his arms drop. He needed coffee.Goodcoffee, not the shit he got in Afghanistan.
Momma hummed in agreement. “My baby’s home for the first time in too long, so he’s gettin’ the five-star treatment.”
“You didn’t need to do all that. I’d’ve been fine with a bowl of cereal.”
She shot him a look over her shoulder that clearly telegraphedare you out of your damn mind?“I beg your pardon, but my son who’s just come home from protecting and serving isnotgonna spend his first mornin’ in civilization eatin’cereal.” She spat the word like one wouldcentipede. “And certainly not when he’s brought Caleb home too. I own a bakery, for heaven’s sake. Quit insultin’ me in front of our guest.”
Hudson held up his hands in surrender, his low chuckles mixing with Caleb’s. Christ, he’d missed this. His momma was nothing if not feisty, and he loved every second of it. It had been different when they’d been together in other locations over the years—not as comfortable. Not as easy. And certainly not as familiar.
“Sorry, Momma. I’d eat an entire batch of your cinnamon roll French toast by myself, you know that. I just didn’t want you goin’ to any extra trouble.”
“Hush now. No extra trouble.” His momma placed a plate piled high with French toast and a bowl full of scrambled eggs on the table between the two place settings already laid out, the glasses filled with OJ. “Let me grab the bacon for you, then you boys go on ahead and dive in. I’ll keep whippin’ up more over here, since I’m sure y’all’re hungry as all get-out.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Miller.”
“Now, none of that, Caleb. I’ve told you to call me Marianne a dozen times over the years.”
He tipped his head toward her, his lips twitching the slightest bit. “Yes, ma’am.”
Hudson settled at the round dining table across from Caleb. He forked a few pieces onto his plate then scooped up a pile of eggs and several slices of bacon, having absolutely no interest in being polite and letting his guest go first. Not when it was his momma’s French toast on the line. Not when it’d beenyearssince he’d had it.
“You get settled all right?” he asked Caleb, lifting his eyes from the pool of syrup he poured over the stack of deliciousness on his plate.
Caleb gave a single nod, slathering butter on his French toast. “Yes, sir.”
Hudson froze with the fork to his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “Knock that shit off. I told you to cut the sir when we’re not on base.”
His best friend merely lifted a brow. “Hard habit to break.Sir.”
Hudson blew out a breath and shook his head, a wry smile tipping his lips. You could take the soldier out of the army, but you couldn’t take the army out of the soldier.
