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“I’m not going to hurt ya, Dove,” he whispers, his eyes looking into mine before he reaches for my arm again. Leaning closer to me, he gently runs his thumb over the bruise. “Gonna wanna ice this. It’ll be sore tomorrow. Probably already is now, huh?”
His touch has me melting to the seat. It’s almost as though every single cell awakens at his fingertips. I don’t openly gawk, but peer at him out of the corner of my eye. I can tell he’s older than me—by how many years, I’m not sure. But it’s not lost on me that after our fun outing last week, he’s spent every day since treating me like a disease. One that he could die from.
“Oh, so, now, you’re talking to me,” I sass, my eyebrows shooting clear to my forehead. “Are you a broody, coldhearted asshole, Hudson? Or are you actually a nice, gelato-eating, sightseeing fella? Because I’ve got to tell you, you sure make it hard to know.”
He doesn’t budge. His deep, dark, mysterious energy feels as though it could swallow me whole, and I’d probably go willingly as long as I could be wrapped up in his tattooed, muscled deliciousness.
“Wouldn’t be here if I was all that nice, would I, sweetheart?” His deep voice cuts through the night air. “It’s time for you to go inside. You’ve had enough fun for one day.”
For a moment, he lingers beside me. I almost dare to look right at him, but I don’t bother.
Backing up, he waits for me to climb out of the seat. And once I do, he closes the door behind me and follows me inside the house.
As I trudge through the house and down the hallway to head toward my room, I feel him trailing close behind me.
“What’s your favorite thing to eat?” he calls out, halting me dead in my tracks.
For a second, I stand there, wondering why he cares what I like to eat. And then I wonder if maybe I heard him wrong. But then there’s my next thought. A thought that, in most cases, would be crazy. However, in these circumstances, it seems pretty normal. And that’s …
Is he going to poison me?
Turning to face him, I tilt my head to the side and put a hand on my hip. “Why?”
He lazily leans his shoulder against the wall, folding his huge arms across his chest, making me take notice. “Well, it’s obviously been a pretty terrible day for you. I’ll have Aldo make whatever you want for dinner.” He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Least we can do for you while you’re here, I suppose.”
My eyes narrow, and I raise a brow. “Are you planning on poisoning me? Because if you are, there’s, like … one thousand other ways I’d rather die than by being killed by my favorite food.”
“No.” His expression grows serious. “Trust me, the people you’re running with wouldn’t be kind enough to end you in such a humane way.” He unfolds his arms before smacking his hands together. “No, I just … assumed you could use some good food to make you feel better. When I was a kid, whenever I had a bad day, my mom would make me my favorite thing for dinner.” He shrugs, clearly feeling uncomfortable. “Might sound dumb, but it helped.”
There are so many things I want to ask him. Like, what’s an example of a bad day for him that would prompt her to make him his favorite meal? Most of my bad days were brought on by my own parents, and they sure as hell weren’t making me my favorite meals. I want to find out more about him, but instead, I just stare at him curiously.
“You tell me, what’s your favorite food, Hercules?” I ask, interested in his answer while also knowing I don’t really have a favorite food. I mean, I guess if I had to throw something out there, pizza would be it. Because how do you go wrong with pizza?
I figure he won’t tell me. Or he’ll suddenly turn cold again and walk away. But instead, he surprises me by giving me a real answer.
“Chicken Alfredo. Well, it was when I was a kid. Now, I’ll admit, steak trumps carbs.” He pats his stomach. “Nothing trumps a good steak. Hell, even a shitty steak isn’t bad.”
I never had much of a choice of what was for dinner, growing up. Most of the time, there was no dinner at all. It would usually consist of a piece of bread with some cheap peanut butter smeared on it.
For reasons I don’t understand, nor do I care to, I choose just to be friendly and not ponder the reasons why Hudson Hercules runs so damn hot and cold.
“Chicken Alfredo sounds pretty damn good,” I tell him honestly because just thinking about it makes my mouth water. “Also, I hate to break it to you, but nothing trumps carbs. Not even the world’s most expensive steak.”
“I asked for your favorite meal,” he states, looking at me curiously.
I take a few steps backward, still facing him. “To be honest, I don’t really have one. Well, aside from pizza or fast food. So, if it’s okay, I’ll eat your favorite—or ex-favorite, I should say—tonight.”
“You got it.” He looks down slightly, grinning. “Go rest. It’ll be ready when you are.”
Stretching my arms over my head, I yawn immediately, feeling the bruise and frowning. For a moment, I simply lie here, still feeling completely and utterly exhausted, even though when I look at the clock, I see I slept for a few hours.
My stomach rumbles, and I instantly recall what Hudson told me. That when I was ready, there would be chicken Alfredo waiting for me.
I move to the edge of the bed and get up before taking a look at myself in the mirror. “Oof,” I grumble, running my hand over the top of my crazy-looking hair. “I look like dog shit.”
Walking into my bathroom, I brush my hair and wash my face. I still look like I’ve been run over by a car, but it’s nothing some cheesy carbs won’t fix, I’m sure.
I make my way toward the hallway and walk into the dining room to find Rossi standing by a window. When he hears me approaching, he quickly turns to face me.
