Page 9 of None Of Your Business

“I try not to make a habit of inviting them over.”

“Good policy.”

“Until last night.”

“Fuck off.”

He smirks again.

I throw the duvet aside and swing my legs out. The moment my feet hit the floor, my left hip pops and my ankle throbs. I try to stand, but the room tilts ninety degrees, forcing me to sit back down.

Hudson watches me.

“I can tell you’re about to doctor me,” I warn him.

“I was going to suggest moving a little slower.”

I try again, waiting for the floor to stabilize before limping across the hall.

The guest room has warm wood, cream walls, and a window overlooking green gardens. My clothes are neatly folded on a chair, my heels set together beneath it.

I change out of his T-shirt before pulling on my jeans, but my hip catches halfway, sending a sharp pain down my leg. I grit my teeth and yank them up anyway.

“You’re limping again,” Hudson says from the doorway.

Ignoring him, I grab my heels and refuse to acknowledge the condition of my joints.

It’s been a year since Hudson walked into my parents’ house during one of Mom’s manic episodes. He was supposed to be a one-off favor for Beckett, but because my mother has never met a boundary she couldn’t lovingly bulldoze, she started calling him for everything. New meds? Hudson. Bad side effect? Hudson. Three nights of insomnia? Call the nice doctor.

He keeps answering. He’s a decent guy like that, which is annoying.

But here’s the thing about Donna Callahan: she collects strays. Feral cats, lost dogs, broken humans. When we were kids, Noah brought his friend Griffin over for dinner, and Mom adopted him on the spot. Hudson is just her latest acquisition. The poor bastard doesn’t even realize he’s in the system yet.

“Okay,” I say, clutching my heels. “I’m leaving.”

Hudson steps back to give me room.

It’s ridiculous for a man to look that good in a half-buttoned shirt at eight in the morning.

“Thank you for not leaving me on a hydrant,” I say as I pass. “And for the T-shirt. And for the bed I hijacked. We will never speak of this again.”

“Naturally.”

I head for the stairs before my hungover brain processes the scent of him. Fucking head doctors. Of course he smells good.

His townhouse is gorgeous, too. It’s open and bright, with morning light spilling across oak floors, a deep green sofa, and wall-to-wall bookshelves. It looks lived-in and comfortable. I expected cold, clinical sterility. Instead, the man has houseplants. Healthy ones.

Psychopath.

I’m halfway to the front door when it flies open.

“You better be ready for breakfast,” a man’s voice yells.

Before Hudson can reply, a toddler with dark curls comes tearing around the corner and launches herself at his knees. Hudson scoops her up, lifting her onto his hip without missing a beat. His whole face softens.

“Morning,” he murmurs, kissing her head.

Oh, come on! He is not allowed to be good with kids.