Page 110 of Beautiful Collide

I let out a sigh, finally turning to face him.

Damn.

I shouldn’t have done that.

The man is freshly showered. His dirty-blond hair looks brown as the water still clings to each strand. Droplets of water drip down his face.

He showered fast.

Or maybe he took a page out of Slate’s playbook and dunked his head. It doesn’t matter because this man should be illegal. He should one hundred percent come with a warning label.

It’s unfair—actuallyunfair—how good he looks without even trying.

The ends of his hair curl slightly where they’re still damp, making him look just this side of boyish. Except nothing about the rest of him is boyish.

His jaw is sharp, dusted with just enough stubble to make him look rugged. A single droplet trails down his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his T-shirt.

My gaze dips lower without permission, taking in the way the shirt clings to his broad shoulders and chest, still damp enough to hint at the hard lines of muscle underneath.

And just like that, my mouth goes dry.

My heart stumbles, and heat creeps up the back of my neck like it’s trying to expose me. It’s maddening, really, the way my pulse betrays me every time he’s within a ten-foot radius.

Hudson Wilde isn’t just handsome—he’s infuriatingly, stupidly hot.

And right now, standing there like he just stepped out of a cologne ad, he’s every bit the kind of trouble I don’t need.

“I’m not avoiding you.” I plant a hand on my hip, feigning confidence. “I’m just . . . busy.”

Hudson’s lips twitch, a hint of disbelief flickering across his face. “Busy, huh?”

“Yep.” I pop thep.

He arches a brow, his expression equal parts amused and skeptical.

“All right, I’ll bite.” He tilts his head, that infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth. “What’s got you sooo busy you can’t spare two minutes to talk to me?”

“What do you want, Hudson?” I snap, sharper than I mean to.

The words land heavy, and regret churns in my stomach. He hasn’t done anything to deserve this. Not today, anyway.

We had a moment that’s been on a constant loop in my brain. I’m wound up too tight, and it’s spilling out the wrong way.

Hudson crosses his arms, but nothing about it is defensive. If anything, he looks more relaxed—more determined.

“I want you to stop running.” His calm, steady voice dares me to argue.

“I’m not running.”

His gaze pins me. “We both know you are.”

“I can’t help it,” I admit before I can stop myself. My voice is smaller now, faltering.

“Why?”

The quiet word cuts through me like a blade.

I swallow hard, looking anywhere but at him. “I don’t know.”

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