Page 21 of Lucky Laces
Until…all at once, the world stops shaking.
I wait a beat.
Then another.
Then—
I exhale and start to crawl off him?—
“Wait,” Hudson says.
It’s my turn for my eyes to go wide, for me to begin to ask what’s going on.
But I don’t get that far.
Because the world starts shaking again and this time it’s short, but it’s somehow more violent—jerking rather than rolling, threatening to toss me from his lap like I’m riding a bucking bronco.
I cry out when my head hits the underside of the desk again, but Hudson reacts faster than I do—cupping the back of my skull, putting his hand between the hard wood and my head.
Protecting me.
Drawing me down more securely against him.
Until the shaking stops as abruptly as it started.
When it doesn’t immediately start up again, I slither off Hudson and out from under the desk.
He hisses out a pained breath.
“Shit,” I say.“I’m sorry.”
“It’s not you.”He grunts softly as he pushes himself out from the desk, long legs sending the items that have fallen off the top in all directions.“Sorry,” he mutters.
“Not your fault,” I whisper, surveying the damage.
Or starting to, anyway because, Huddy grunts again and this time I’m together enough to recognize that it’s not just discomfort.
It’spain.
I whip back toward him?—
“Your leg!”
Shit.
He’s bleeding.A lot.
I rush back over to him, dropping to my knees.
“It’s fine,” he mutters.“Just a scratch.”
It’s more than ascratch.It’s soaked through the front of his thigh, coating the denim covering it.Worry eating at me, I search through the mess of pens and pencils, my keyboard and papers, the overturned monitor and chair, and manage to locate my scissors.
“Diana,” he says.“Easy.I’m fine.”
But I just bat his hand away when he reaches for the shears and make short work of cutting through the fabric of his jeans.
He hisses as I part the material, and I don’t blame him.
