Page 63 of None Of Your Business

Oh. My. God.

My thighs squeeze together.

Where are these thoughts coming from? Has it really been that long since I’ve been touched, or is it just his hands? He has incredible hands.

Yep. Definitely the hands.

I need to stop spending time with this man.

“You okay?” he asks, noticing my silence. “You’re flushed.”

No, Hudson, I’m imagining those fingers stroking me from the inside.

“I’m fine,” I say instead, clearing my throat.

After he gently sets Toast back down, we both stand. He’s right there, towering over me, smelling like… him. It’s his cologne and whatever soap he washed with this morning. He’s close enough that I can catch the dark shadow of stubble along his jawline.

I lift my chin, keeping my voice steady. “Can I have my studio key back? As you can see, I’m alive and plan on staying that way.”

He looks down at me through those black frames, then pulls the silver key from his pocket and holds it out.

I reach for it, but his fingers tighten around the metal.

I tug. Nothing.

“Hudson. Give.”

“One condition.”

“What?”

“I want to see what you’re working on.”

I drop my hand like the metal burned me. “No.”

He drops the key back into his pocket. “Then the studio stays locked.”

“You can’t hold my studio hostage!” I step into his space, poking him squarely in the chest. “That’s extortion! Or being a massive prick!”

He leans down until we’re eye level, a flash of pure amusement in his eyes. “You crashed my work. I’m crashing yours.”

My brain searches for a loophole, but there isn’t one. I need those keys. The brain fog has lifted, and my fingers are itching to push paint around until the noise in my head stops. If I don’t paint today, I’ll crawl out of my skin.

“Fine.”

We navigate the sea of eating cats and walk down the gravel path to the warehouse next door. My palms are sweating. I don’t show people unfinished work. Ever.

Hudson steps inside the warehouse, taking in the cluttered benches and the row of flipped canvases facing the wall.

In the center of the room sits my main easel.

It’s a massive canvas layered in deep yellow and raw umber, split down the middle by a jagged streak of white. It’s loud and raw and nowhere near finished.

I stand back, arms crossed tightly over my chest, waiting for the verdict. He’s probably going to tell me it looks like a physical manifestation of an unhinged psyche.

I hold my breath.

Hands slipping into his pockets, he walks slowly toward the painting and studies it.