Page 97 of Lost Then Found
Hudson grins. “Do you?”
I chuckle, shaking my head, and check the biscuits in the oven. He turns back to his homework, mumbling under his breath as he reads. His pace is slow, careful. Already better than mine was at his age.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, and glance around the house while I wait.
It’s small but solid. Feels like a place that’s been lived in. Comfortable. There’s a stack of mail on the entry table, a basket of laundry half-folded on the couch, a pile of shoes kicked off near the door. Pictures fill the walls—Lark holding a baby Hudson, his tiny fist wrapped around her finger. The two of them at a baseball game, both grinning wide. Christmas mornings, birthdays, snapshots of a life that’s been moving forward without me.
And she wasn’t kidding about the books.
Shoved onto two shelves, stacked in every possible direction, like she ran out of space but refused to stop adding to the collection. Some look well-worn, dog-eared and creased at the spines. I wonder which ones she reads over and over. Which ones she’d tell me to start with if I asked.
Hudson sighs, snapping his textbook shut. “I’m calling it. My brain’s officially fried.”
“Yeah? You push through the whole twenty minutes already?”
“More like twenty-five,” he grumbles. “Felt like an hour.”
“Yeah, I know the feeling.”
He looks up at me, squinting. “Wait—you do?”
I nod. “Reading’s never been easy for me either.”
Hudson tilts his head, studying me like he’s trying to decide if I’m screwing with him. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.” I cross my arms. “Used to take me twice as long to get through a book as everyone else. Sometimes longer.”
He leans back in his chair, considering that. “Huh. Guess it turned out okay for you, though.”
I smirk. “Yeah, well, I don’t have to read aloud in front of a class anymore, so that helps.”
Hudson snickers. “Fair.” Then he jerks his chin toward the stove. “Thinkit’s done?”
I grab a spoon, cut into a dumpling, watching the steam curl up. Perfect.
“Yeah,” I say, setting the spoon aside. “Go grab some bowls.”
Right on cue, the front door swings open, and Lark steps inside, kicking it shut behind her.
I lose my damn train of thought.
She’s in leggings that fit her like a glove, hugging every inch of her, and a black sports bra that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Her hair’s wild, golden strands slipping loose from where she had it tied up, sticking to her flushed skin. She yanks out the ponytail holder, shakes her hair loose, and hell if that doesn’t make my brain short-circuit completely.
Then she bends over to untie her shoes, and I swear to God—
I force myself to look away, busying my hands with the towel slung over my shoulder. But it’s pointless. My gaze drags right back, landing on the dip of her back, the sweat dripping down the smooth line of her spine, the curve of her ass—the same ass that guys used to talk about in locker rooms and around town.
I was the only one who ever got to touch it.
She wipes the back of her hand across her forehead, breathes deep, and looks up.
And then there it is.
That moment. The one where I wonder if there’ll ever come a day when she walks into a room and I don’t think she’s the most beautiful thing in it.
I think I already know the answer.
She pushes some loose hair out of her face. “Sorry I’m a little late.”
