Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 23649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 118(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
I scoff. “Something like that.”
I slip past him before he can push further, heading down the stairs.
Cooking. That’s what I need. Something to keep my hands busy, my mind from spiraling.
I step into the kitchen a minute later, assessing the bare minimum ingredients Hudson has stocked. It’s clear the man survives on coffee, jerky, and whatever he hunts. I dig around until I find some flour, eggs, and canned tomatoes. Lasagna. My specialty.
The scent of garlic and simmering tomato sauce fills the kitchen as I roll out the pasta dough. For the first time since stepping foot in this cabin, I feel grounded. The wooden floor creaks behind me. I glance over my shoulder to find Hudson watching me, arms crossed.
“You do this when you’re nervous?” he asks.
I blink. “Do what?”
“Cook.” His gaze flicks to the mess I’ve made on his counter.
I shrug. “Some people drink. Some people go for a run. I make pasta.”
A beat of silence.
“You nervous about me?”
The way he says it—gruff, confident, like he already knows the answer—makes my stomach flip.
I force myself to focus on kneading the dough, my fingers pressing firmly into the flour-dusted surface.
“I don’t know yet,” I admit.
He exhales through his nose, stepping closer. “Good. That means you’re smart.”
I glance at him again, my fingers pausing on the dough. “That a warning?”
His lips curl at the edges. “Just saying. You don’t know me. Could be worse than the guy you’re running from.”
Something about the way he says it—low, almost a challenge—makes heat curl low in my stomach.
I tilt my head, assessing him.
“You’re not.”
His brow lifts. “How do you know?”
“Because if you were, you wouldn’t have cleared out closet space for me.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “That’s what does it for you? A couple empty drawers?”
I roll the dough again, smirking. “Hey, it’s the little things.”
He steps closer. Too close. His big frame crowds the kitchen, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.
“You’re trouble, Palmer.”
I swallow hard. “So are you.”
His gaze drops to my lips, his hands flexing at his sides like he’s fighting the urge to touch me.
Heat flares between us, thick and suffocating.
Then—
A loud ding from the oven breaks the moment.
I inhale sharply, spinning back to the stove. Right. Cooking. Focus on that, not the dangerously attractive man standing behind me. All broad shoulders and rumbly voice–my heart thrums wildly with just a single glance from him.
I distract myself by pulling the lasagna out, the scent of melted cheese and tomato sauce filling the kitchen.
Hudson moves away, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “You trying to butter me up?”
“Is it working?”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Guess we’ll see.”
We sit at the small wooden table, plates between us. I take a bite, humming. Perfect. Hudson watches me, his own fork halfway to his mouth.
“What?” I ask.
“You make that sound again and you’re gonna have more trouble on your hands than whatever you’re running from.”
Heat flushes my skin.
He takes a bite, chewing slowly before nodding. “Damn. This might be the only reason I keep you around.”
I roll my eyes, hiding my smile. We eat in silence, but the tension remains. Thick. Electric. Like a wire ready to snap. And I realize then—Hudson Kane might be my new husband on paper, but in every other way?
He’s a storm I’m not sure I can outrun.
And worse?
I don’t know if I want to.
Chapter Three
Hudson
I round the corner of the cabin, the weight of the firewood biting into my forearms, the scent of fresh pine clinging to my shirt. Just as I’m about to nudge the door open with my boot, her voice stops me cold—soft, quiet, threaded with something I can’t name.
“No, I haven’t told him everything...” Palmer’s on the phone, her voice drifting out the cracked kitchen window like smoke. “He thinks I’m over it, but I still can’t sleep without thinking about him.”
I freeze, every muscle going taut. My knuckles tighten around the logs. I knew this woman had a secret, I’ve been biting my tongue but I’m regretting that decision now.
“Sometimes,” she continues, her voice barely a whisper, “I think about the way he used to look at me—like I belonged to him.”
The breath punches from my lungs, sharp and unexpected. I stare at the grain of the firewood like it’s got answers. She still thinks about him. Still remembers how he looked at her. Like she was his. My jaw clenches so tight it aches. I should walk away. Give her privacy. But I don’t.
“He’s always watching. I can feel it. I just want to feel safe again.”
But the words don’t land right. I hear them, but they don’t sink in—not fully. Not the way they should. All I catch is he’s always watching, tangled with the sound of fear slipping off her lips like some ghost she can’t let go of. She doesn’t feel safe with me.