Page 74 of Beautiful Collide

It’s only a few steps before I stand in front of the door. A tiny bell jingles as I pull it open.

As soon as I’m inside, my eyes scan the space. A small line has formed in front of the register, but none of the people here are my brother.

Oh, well, I guess I’ll just order. He’ll be here eventually.

I walk over to the register. The couple in front of me steps out of the way as soon as they order, and I take their place.

I order our coffees and stand off to the side, my patience wearing thin.

Clutching two steaming cups, I shift my weight from one foot to the other, trying to push down my annoyance.

It’s not like Dane to be late, so something must have happened.

I let out a sigh and continue to peer around the room, when my eyes land onhim.

The person who haunts my waking thoughts and my dreams. In equal measure.

My opposing feelings for him give me whiplash.

Sometimes, I want to thank him.

Other times, I wish he never existed.

Dramatic, sure. But Hudson Wilde elicits strong feelings from me. Most often, bad ones.

Sometimes, apparently, homicidal ones.

Why does he have to be so damn handsome?

With that rugged look and a dusting of hair on his face, he looks like he would fit in better out on the land riding a horse than on the ice, but lord, is he good on skates.

With tousled, dirty-blond hair and a sharp jawline, he should come with a warning label.

I’d rather deal with a dozen over-caffeinated idiots than one cocky and annoying hockey player who’s great in bed.

And the worst part . . . he’s the only man who’s made me come.

So, yeah, I hate him.

And it’s just my luck to bump into him. Maybe he’s right. Perhaps I am the hex. As I try to escape, he notices me and crosses the space to intercept me.

Of course, I want no part in that, so I move faster, but when I do, my foot snags on the carpet runner, and like in slow motion, my cup slips from my grasp.

And, of course, Hudson, being Hudson, is already beside me, trying to once again be the hero.

Joke’s on him because it’s already falling.

Time slows to a turtle’s pace as I watch it tumble, coffee splattering all over Hudson’s white Henley.

He jumps back, his hands flying to pull his shirt away from his body.

“Fuck, that hurts.” He continues to fumble with his shirt until he eventually goes to lift it. He apparently remembers that he has nothing underneath because the moment his perfect washboard abs are in plain view, he drops the soaked material back down.

“Great, just great,” I mutter, eyes wide.

I’ll never hear the end of this. I’m sure he’ll figure out a way to attach this moment to my nickname.

Clumsy Hex or something stupid.

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