“I’m going to chop some wood,” he mutters.
I bite my tongue on a retort about wood as he goes down the ladder.
“Stay in your own room next time,” I say instead.
He grunts and shakes his head, leaving me wondering if I’m missing something.
Getting up from the bed, I lean over the loft and watch him as he pulls on sweatpants and a hoodie.
“What were you doing on the floor anyway?”
He pulls open the door, and as the door swings open, a gust of cold air blasts in, making me shiver. “You had a nightmare. I comforted you.” On that note he stomps out, and another gust of wind catches the door, making it slam shut behind him.
Oh. I don’t remember a nightmare, and I certainly don’t remember Hudson comforting me.
Through the round window, I see him go to the woodshed. He pulls a log onto the stump and retrieves an axe from the shed. He hoists the axe above his head and swings it down, splitting the wood. He pulls up his sleeves as he gets into a steady rhythm, logafter log. After the next one, he pulls his hoodie off, and then he’s just in the white undershirt.
As he raises the axe over his head, I see the muscles in his back ripple. As he swings it down and connects with the wood, his arm muscles dance, and a sheen of sweat forms on his body.
I let out a long sigh, feeling a warmth in my belly that isn’t just me needing to use the bathroom.
I can’t remember Hudson comforting me last night, but I sure wish I did.
13
HUDSON
The smell of bacon frying makes my nose twitch as soon as I walk into the cabin. Willow is in the kitchen standing over a frying pan, and the soft crackle of bacon in the pan makes my mouth water—or maybe it’s seeing her in loose jogging pants and a t-shirt doing something as domestic and ordinary as frying bacon.
“I made breakfast.” She turns a smile on me that could light up a dark room and makes it impossible to be grumpy with her.
I got a hell of a fright when she trod on me this morning. After her nightmare, I carted my sleeping bag up to “her room,” as she calls it. I wanted to be near her in case she had any more bad dreams.
What I got was a foot to the groin, and now Willow thinks I’m a weird stalker who watches her sleep, which, to be fair, is exactly what I did for half the night.
She slides eggs onto two plates, adding a stack of bacon to each. I take it that Willow isn’t the kind of woman to hold a grudge,judging by her flirty attitude this morning and the breakfast she’s just cooked.
“I’m sorry I scared you this morning.”
She takes her plate to the table, and I follow with the second plate. My gaze takes in her sweater strewn over the back of the couch and her daypack open on the floor. The woman doesn’t seem to know how to keep the place tidy.
“I don’t remember having a nightmare,” she says.
“You don’t remember any of it?” Which means she doesn’t remember reaching for my hand and the way my presence seemed to calm her.
I’m not about to remind her I stood over her while she slept. It could be construed as a little creepy, especially after I jumped her this morning, which in my sleep-addled brain seemed like the best way to protect her.
Or maybe it’s what I’ve wanted to do ever since I saw her ass in the moonlight.
“I checked my emails this morning while you were chopping wood.”
I snap my focus back to the mission. I shouldn’t be imagining cupping her butt cheeks when her brother is out there somewhere with a gang closing in on him.
“Any news?”
She shakes her head. “No messages from Tyler.”
Willow twirls her fork, and I notice she’s barely touching her breakfast. Though she hides her concern under a sunnydisposition, I know what it’s like to worry about a sibling. Only Paige was giving me a different type of headache.
