"That doesn't mean anything."
"It means everything."
He leaned in, and for one heart-stopping moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. I could feel his breath on my lips, could see the intention in his eyes, could feel my own body leaning toward him like a flower seeking sunlight.
He stopped a breath away, so close I could almost taste him, and said, "When this happens, and it will happen, Betty, it's going to be because you ask for it. Because you tell me you want it. Because you can't stand being apart anymore."
"It's not going to happen."
"We'll see." He stepped back, his hand dropping away from my face, and the loss of his touch was so acute it felt like a physical pain.
He moved back to the couch without another word, settling against the cushions like he hadn't just set my entire body on fire with a single touch.
"Get some sleep, Betty," he said, picking up his phone. "I'll be right here if you need me."
I stood there for a long moment, my heart pounding, my body trembling with unfulfilled need.
Then I grabbed my water and walked back to my bedroom on unsteady legs, closing the door behind me.
I didn't lock it.
I told myself it was because I forgot.
But I knew the truth.
Part of me wanted him to follow.
I finally fell asleep sometime around four and woke up to sunlight streaming through my window and the smell of coffee.
For a disoriented moment, I forgot that Hudson was here. Forgot that someone was trying to kill me. Forgot everything except the simple pleasure of waking up to coffee I hadn't made.
Then reality crashed back in, and I groaned.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. 9:47 AM. I'd overslept. The bar didn't open until five, but I had inventory to do, orders to place, and a beer delivery coming at noon.
And I had to face Hudson after last night's kitchen confrontation.
Great. Just great.
I threw on jeans and a t-shirt, pulled my hair back into a messy ponytail, and emerged from my bedroom with as much dignity as I could muster.
Hudson was in the kitchen again. Of course he was. This time he was fully dressed, and he was sliding eggs onto a plate with the practiced ease of someone who did this every day.
"Morning," he said without turning around.
"You don't have to keep feeding me."
"Yes, I do." He set the plate on the counter and turned to face me. His eyes did that sweep thing again and I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "You look better. Sleep helps."
"Are we not going to talk about last night?"
"That depends." He handed me a cup of coffee, and leaned against the counter. "Do you want to talk about it?"
No. Absolutely not. I wanted to pretend it had never happened.
"There's nothing to talk about," I said, taking a sip of coffee to avoid looking at him. "Nothing happened."
"You're right. Nothing happened." His voice was mild, but when I glanced at him, there was a knowing glint in his eyes. "Yet."
