Page 90 of Critical Mass
“Her name was Claire,” he said. “We met when I played hockey. She said she was my biggest fan. But she couldn’t handle me being gone so much for the military. While I was deployed, she began dating my best friend.”
“Ouch.”
“Yes, ouch.”
She reached for the gauze. “Your knuckles.”
Hudson held out his hands without protest. His right knuckles were the worst—split and already swelling. She cleaned them and wrapped them carefully, her fingers gentle even as her heart hammered with contradictions.
How could she want to touch him and push him away at the same time? How could she be furious with him and desperately grateful he’d been here tonight?
“Must have been hard to date again after Claire,” she finally said.
“It was. And I didn’t. I decided I was better off single.”
She bandaged his last wound and stepped back. “I see. But you said you fell in love twice.”
He stared at her, and she knew his answer.
She knew he was thinking of her.
But she couldn’t bear to hear him say those words.
He opened his mouth, and she feared she wouldn’t be strong enough to withstand his words.
She felt weak—like she wanted more than anything to run into his arms.
Which was why she needed to get out of here before she did something stupid like cry or kiss him or both.
“You’re all bandaged up now.” Her voice sounded thin and scratchy. “You should be fine.”
He glanced at his bandaged hand. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” She took another step away and turned. “I hope you sleep well.”
“Natalie.”
She paused in the doorway but didn’t turn around.
“Thank you,” Hudson said quietly. “For the bandages. For—” His voice caught. “For everything.”
She didn’t respond. She couldn’t. She just walked down the hall to her bedroom and closed the door.
Only then, alone in the dark, did she let herself cry—for the relationship she’d thought she had, for the danger she was in, for the man who’d lied to her and saved her and broken her heart all in the same night.
And for the terrifying realization that despite everything, she still loved him too.
Hudson lay on the guest bed, staring at the ceiling of the room Ravenscroft had assigned him—far enough from Natalie’s room to be “proper,” close enough to maintain the concerned boyfriend illusion.
The house was quiet now. Ravenscroft had retired to his study. The security team had settled into their night positions. And Natalie was at the other end of the hall, probably as unable to sleep as he was.
He still felt the tension from their earlier conversation. That moment when her guard had dropped, when she’d looked at him like maybe—just maybe—she was considering giving him another chance.
Then she’d shut down. Walls up. Distance restored.
He couldn’t blame her.
Hudson rolled onto his side, trying to get comfortable despite his bruised ribs. His mind drifted back to something Natalie had told him weeks ago, back when he’d still been Timothy Shaw and their biggest concern had been whether to order Thai or Italian for dinner.
