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“You’ll probably get stung out here, you know.”
I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Hudson behind me.
“Fucking bees. I hate when I have to come out here.”
“Who said you had to come out here?” I say, rolling my eyes. “And they only sting when they feel threatened or provoked.” I crane my neck to look at him. “So, don’t piss them off, and they won’t poke you with their stingers.”
Walking closer, he stops next to the bench. “Is that actually true, or did you make that up?”
“Google it.” I watch his eyes move around, observing the bees move from flower to flower, and I can tell this giant, tattooed, muscled man is a nervous wreck. “I didn’t make it up. Swear it.” I huff out a laugh. “I kind of thought everyone knew that.”
“No.” He nods toward my book. “Drawing more dirty pictures? Maybe some pictures of bees fucking on another bee’s flower today?”
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” I groan, throwing my head back. “It wasn’t you. I just like tattooed men, and one of the tattoos happened to be the same as yours. It was me and another man.”
“Yeah, okay,” he mumbles. “Are you going to show me what you’re working on or what?”
He’s always so serious and borderline grouchy that it makes him incredibly hard to read. But when the corner of his mouth turns up just the slightest bit, I know he actually wants to see my sketches.
“Well, there’s no bee pornography, so don’t get too excited,” I tease him before flipping through the book and landing on the page of the garden.
But before I can show him, he reaches down and flips back one page. And when he does, he can’t help but chew on the inside of his cheek.
“What is this drawing?” he asks, staring down at it. “Who is that?”
I gaze down, opening my mouth to talk, though the words don’t want to come out. “It’s my mom.” I fight the emotion that’s trying to work its way up and shove it back down. “It was Christmas Eve. She was doing really well that Christmas. She even made cookies.” I breathe out a tiny laugh. “They were terrible, but still, she made them.”
Keeping his arm reached over me, he flips to another page that lands on a drawing of Walker playing hockey in the street in front of our house. “When did you start drawing?”
“I’m not really sure. Maybe when I was, like, seven or eight?” I sigh. “At first, it was cool places I’d imagine going someday. Like … theme parks where you could go to outer space. Or somewhere you could bathe in ice cream.” I scrunch my nose up. “Sounds gross now. But back then? It was my only escape.”
“Escape from what?” His deep voice vibrates through his chest.
“Life,” I whisper, closing my book and looking straight ahead.
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, he walks until he’s standing in front of me and holds his hand out.
“Do you want to see the prettiest place on the property?”
I look down at his hand. In a lot of ways, I know I shouldn’t trust this man. He could be luring me away from the property to kill me, per Enzo’s request. But I also don’t want to lead on just how much I don’t trust him either.
“What if Enzo—”
“Everyone, besides Rossi and me, is somewhere with him tonight.” He swallows, making his Adam’s apple bob. “Come with me, Dove.”
Biting down on my bottom lip, slowly, I take his hand and stand. Choosing to trust him, even though it terrifies me.
We walk along the cliff, looking out at the water. It was already cold out today, but now that the sun is going down, it’s fucking freezing.
“I had no idea this house was so close to the ocean,” she whispers, breathing in the salty air. “And I get to see it during the best time of the day.”
A shiver runs down her body, and her lips tremble.
“Cold?” I ask her, but she instantly shakes her head.
“No, I’m good,” she answers quickly, but I know she’s lying when I see her body shaking.
Peeling my hoodie off, I pull it over her head. “Here,” I tell her. “This will keep you warm.”
