Page 73 of None Of Your Business

“With what?”

“You’ll see.”

I pop my trunk with the key fob and head toward the car.

He exhales through his nose, but his footsteps follow me down the driveway.

Inside the trunk are several cans of house paint, two heavy canvas drop cloths, painter’s tape, a handful of clamps, and enough brushes to redecorate half the neighborhood.

Hudson stops beside me.

“Rowan,” he says slowly, pointing at a can of bright yellow. “What is this?”

“Paint.”

His eyes narrow. “I can see that it’s paint.”

“Good. Medical school continues to pay dividends.”

“Why is it in my driveway?”

“Grab some cans.”

“Rowan?”

“You’re a very pretty man, Hudson, but you’re a terrible assistant when you ask too many questions.”

He mutters something under his breath.

I’m almost certain he’s cursing the day he met me.

I haul a drop cloth over my shoulder and lead him around the side of the townhouse into his backyard.

Of course his yard is immaculate.

Green grass. Stone patio. Neatly clipped borders. A high wooden privacy fence running along the back.

I almost feel bad for what I’m about to do to it.

Almost.

Talking isn’t exactly my strong suit either, but paint is. I can help like this.

Hudson sets the cans down and watches as I spread one drop cloth over the ground, then clamp the other along the fence.

“What are we doing in my yard?” he tries again.

I turn around. “Art therapy.”

His expression goes flat. “This is not art therapy.”

“Not with that attitude.”

The shadow I saw on Tuesday is still there, sitting in the lines around his eyes and the tight set of his mouth. Whatever happened, he hasn’t put it down once all week.

Here goes nothing.

“I know something is going on with you,” I say, letting the teasing fall away. “And you don’t have to tell me about it.”