Page 131 of Roughing It

He fixes his eyes on me, discerning and knowing. “BB, what life?” At my wobbly lip, he softens his words. “What are you giving up? Fake friends like Mia—or worse, Ryan—who are with you for photo opportunities and brand collaborations. Nights spent in your apartment analyzing analytics, prepping posts, and responding to faceless comments. The occasional crashed holiday with Marcus and me.”

My eyes fill with tears, and I bite my lip, trying to fight the worry away.

“Hey, we adore having you, and you are welcome with us. There’s no question, but you only come because you’re lonely. Who do you have for yourself, BB?”

I want to argue that I have people. Buster. Sylvie. Except Buster and Sylvie have been saying they’re ready to move closer to their kids and grandkids for years. Are they staying because of me? Am I holding them back? Because they know the truth. Without them. Without Marcus and Kirk, I’m truly alone.

“I’m scared.” My eyes close as I whisper. The very real fears of change, failure, giving up what I’ve created—and ending up trapped in a small town of judgmental people—swirl in my stomach. What if things between Hudson and me crash like every other relationship I’ve ever had? My own mother couldn’t stand me. What are the odds Hudson will want me a decade, a year, even a month from now? Or worse, what if he loves me like I think he could, and it’s stillnot enough? That I’m so fundamentally broken, I can’t be happy.

Right alongside those are the fears of giving Hudson up and losing the potential future we could build together. A wonderful life so unlike my childhood, I almost can’t picture it.

An existence where I’m loved and wanted. Always.

“I’ll support you, whatever you choose, but you need to weigh it out. What’s it worth? The money, the status, versus the chance for a complete life. I love you, BB. And your staying won’t change that. You won’t lose me; you won’t lose Sylvie or Buster. But what will you gain?”

The call drops, but I don’t move from my sprawled spot on the forest floor. It isn’t until I hear Hudson, his footsteps so familiar to my ears, that I stir. Two large hands slide under my armpits, pulling me to sitting, then slip under my shirt, tracing patterns and soothing circles on my skin.

“You okay, baby?”

“No.” Tears burn my eyes before spilling down my cheeks. I turn into his touch, burying my face in his chest. It’s too much to think about—the idea of staying, everything Kirk said, the crushing weight of reality—so I snuggle into his arms and let the welcome comfort of his scent and warmth soothe me.

“Shhh. Breathe.” One of Hudson’s hands settles on my chest, applying pressure and forcing me out of my head. “It’s time for us to go back home.”

Without waiting for an answer, he gathers me into his arms and cradles me close. I don’t argue about being too heavy or the trek being too long. I drape my arms around his neck and let the tears fall.

In a desperate attempt to lighten the mood I ruined, I say, “I’m so tired of crying. At this rate, I’ll end up like a cornhusk doll.”

Hudson grunts. Which I take to meanyou’re hilarious, Blakely.

When we get to the cabin, Hudson carries me straight to the bathtub, never letting me go, even as he fiddles with the temperature. He adds my bath oils, salts, all the things I use. Only when he goes to remove his clothes does his grip loosen.

Giving him a small smile, my chest quivering as I try to steady my breathing, I undress. But even that moment apart, not touching, is too much. Desperation takes control, and I grab his hand, needing his skin on mine to ground me.

Hudson climbs into the oversized tub first, then helps me step in, guiding me between his legs. He draws my back to his chest, hugging me to his body. We stay this way, not talking, just touching each other, cuddling together in the warm water.

Eventually, Hudson shifts and sweeps my hair to the side, his lips pressing to the sensitive spot below my ear. “Tell me what happened.”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

He sighs, but then says, “Alright. How about I wash your hair?”

God, this man.

Grabbing his hand, I bring it to my lips, kissing his knuckles, his joints, the tips of his fingers. The hint of his smile against my neck has me quivering. “Yes, please.”

With purposeful movements, Hudson undoes the twin braids running around the back of my head and shakes my hair loose. It falls in waves around my shoulders, and I groan when he tangles his hands in the strands, fingers digging into my scalp.

He reaches around me and grabs my shampoo. Nipping my ear, he says, “Remember when I used your shampoo, and you lost your shit? And saw me naked.”

The heat of his chuckle against my neck has lust slithering through me and my pulse beating between my legs. But I can’t dull the pain with sex. Well, I can, but it won’t make the problem disappear.

I scoot down and hook my ankles over the lip of the tub, floating between his knees in the deep water. Once my hair is wet, Hudson helps me sit and lathers the shampoo into my tresses. His fingers massage my scalp and nape of my neck.

He cups water in his hands, rinses the suds, and then repeats his actions, finger-combing conditioner through my hair, working away the tangles and snarls. When he goes to rinse the conditioner, I stop him.

Rising to my knees, I twist so I’m straddling him. “My turn.”

Hudson nods and leans back against the tub, gripping my hips as I lean over him, dripping water on his head. “What are you going to do about all your gear?”

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