Page 67 of None Of Your Business

The good doctor is perplexed.

I open my sketchbook as Dr. Webb closes the door on the other side, signaling the start of the session. “Last week we spoke about patterns. Tonight I want to talk about attention.” She looks around at everyone. “When did you first realize your partner had stopped noticing you?”

Well, that’s just fucking rude.

The memory of the night I first met Hudson outside my parents’ house comes flooding back.

You should have Beckett look at that leg.

I thought you were a psychiatrist.

I am. I notice things.

I force my pencil to move against the paper, but the observation room suddenly feels ten degrees too warm.

Beside me, Hudson shifts in his seat. The whisper of fabric draws my attention. He rolls his sleeves to his elbows and leans forward, pushing himself directly into my peripheral vision.

My eyes trace the flex of his wrist, the subtle line of tendons, and the way his long fingers rest against the dark wood.

It isn’t until the session ends that I realize what I’ve drawn.

Staring back at me in terrifyingly intimate detail is Hudson’s hand.

Every joint, the precise turn of his wrist, and the subtle shadow cast by his knuckles. It’s practically a love letter to his anatomy.

Oh, God.

I try to slam the sketchbook shut, but I’m a second too late.

A shadow falls over the page.

“Look at that,” Hudson murmurs, looking over my shoulder. “You even got the scar. I’m flattered. Though I thought today’s topic was attention, not fixation.”

“It isn’t a fixation. You were standing right there.”

He chuckles and plucks the sketchbook out of my hands. “This is the work of a woman who was staring.”

I lunge up from the chair to grab it, but he holds it just out of reach. “I don’t know. I think this should go on the fridge. Or maybe I’ll frame it for my office.”

“Hudson, I swear to God—”

I reach for it again, but my head spins. The entire room tilts on its axis.

“Whoa—”

Hudson catches me around the waist, his other hand cupping the back of my neck as he steadies me against his chest.

The air gets sucked out of the room.

My forehead rests just below his collarbone. I’m pinned against him, held upright by the solid pressure of his hands, and I can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat under his sweater.

Neither of us breathes.

His thumb rests against the base of my throat, right over my thrumming pulse.

“Are you falling for me?” he teases softly. “Or was that just the weight of your embarrassment?”

I swallow hard and look up at him. His blue eyes are dark, searching my face, lingering on my lips before darting up to the bruise on my temple.