I take my hand away. I’m not here to notice her eyes; I’m here to keep her safe. To stop her from doing something stupid and reckless and getting herself into more trouble.
But that’s not all of it. I’m here because there was no other choice. I’m drawn to Willow, like the damn paint is drawn to her fingertips. If I’m honest with myself, I’m here because I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
10
HUDSON
It’s later that evening when I unpack the rest of the supplies and check the options for dinner.
“Spaghetti bolognaise or honey mustard chicken on rice?”
I hold up the packet of spaghetti in one hand and the rice in the other, and Willow points to the spaghetti.
“You know how to cook?” she asks, seemingly surprised.
I put a hand on my chest, mock offended. “You doubt my culinary skills?”
She leans on the kitchen counter, and her sweater falls off her shoulder, exposing a smooth orb of skin.
“I just didn’t expect it from a military guy. Don’t they cook all your meals for you?”
I grab a cutting board and line up my ingredients on the bench, an onion, two cloves of garlic, and the pot of fresh basil that I found at the convenience store.
“They do when you’re on deployment, but I’ve been out for three years.”
She nods, silent, then steps over to the couch, where she tucks her feet up underneath herself. With the fire crackling behind her, I’m half tempted to open a bottle of wine as if this were a romantic retreat. But this is a mission, and I didn’t bring any booze.
Instead, I pour two glasses of juice and open a jar of olives. I put them in a little dish and set it on the coffee table for her.
“You got olives? I thought you only went in for the essentials. I was expecting frozen pizza and a bag of apples.” She eyes my ingredients from where she sits. “Not olives and fresh herbs.”
We could’ve done this mission on the ration packs Marcus keeps on site at Bedrock Security, but I’ve gotten used to homemade food.
“I like to cook from scratch when I have the time,” I share.
“And we’ve got plenty of time up here.” She sighs and pulls her knees up to her chest. As I watch her, I can’t envision this woman doing the things she was accused of.
I scrape the skin off an onion and grab the sharpest knife I can find. “Why did you take a plea deal?”
She glances at me at the change of subject, and her expression is wary. I don’t blame her. Willow thinks I’m an uptight law-abiding citizen who’s jumping at the chance to judge her. But I’m wondering if the gang coerced her into confessing to something she didn’t do.
“Did you do what you were accused of?”
She looks down, and her nail scrapes at a piece of loose skin around her fingernails. “I did. I drove stolen goods across town. And I did it more than once.”
The confession is a blow to my chest. Somehow, I wanted it not to be true. I can’t believe this woman, fierce and strong, who loves to paint, would do something like that. Would break the law so flagrantly. But she’s also defiant and proud and seems to have a disregard for authority. I can’t help but admire someone so complicated.
“More than once?”
“I was caught on the third time.” She puts her finger between her teeth and tugs on the loose skin. “I’m not proud of it. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
I pause chopping onions, trying to figure out if I’ve got her all wrong. My instinct about her is that she’s in too deep, and she’s a good person at heart. But maybe my instincts are getting clouded by the way she’s nibbling at her fingernails with sharp teeth and the way her full lips rest on her thumb as if she’s sucking it.
I wipe the back of my hand across my forehead, trying to think clearly. My instincts are never wrong about people.
“Why did you do it?” I ask, because I bet there’s a damn good reason.
She lets out a long sigh and releases the fingernail from her mouth. “Because my brother needed money.”
