Page 52 of Lucky Laces
One look at Dee’s face tells me she’s thinking of them too.
And not in a good way.
Fuck.
I’m so totally getting traded.
Seventeen
Diana
My heart isin my throat until I see Hudson’s form materialize in the hallway, slowly moving to the door.
I know the minute he realizes it’s me because he pauses for a heartbeat.
Then starts moving faster.
And so does my pulse, picking up its pace until it’s thrumming through my veins so intensely that it’s hard to hear the lock being disengaged, the handle being twisted as the door is pulled inward.
My stomach does a funny little dip before worry takes over.
There are dark circles beneath his eyes and sweat on his forehead.
“You’re pushing it,” I mutter, stepping forward and slipping by him, totally forgetting that Jean-Michel, that the man who holds my job, my future, mydreamsin the palm of his hand is on the step behind me until he catches the door as I swing it shut before it can fully close.
I jerk slightly at the noise, glance over my shoulder, murmuring, “Sorry.”
He just smiles and jerks his chin forward, silently telling me to precede.
An uncomfortable feeling settles between my shoulder blades, but I push it down and keep moving into Hudson’s house, knowing that I’m likely revealing too much when I make my way into the kitchen and over to the fridge without hesitation.
“Have you eaten?”I ask, pulling the door open and searching the contents…which, frankly, are pretty dire—and that’s coming from me.
I’ve spent most of my time since the move DoorDashing, stopping at In-N-Out on the way home from the rink, or eating dry cereal right out of the box.
Only on my rare days off do I cook—and that’s only if I had the energy.
Or if Ernest needs a homecooked meal.
And God knows, Jason wasn’t exactly meal planning and serving up a three-course feast for me the moment I walked through the door after work.
Jason—
Ugh.
I don’t want to think about the jerk, but since the quake he’s been blowing up my phone double time (and I didn’t even know it was possible to havemoremissed calls and messages from him, but the man’s really putting in the effort to drive me batshit insane).
He’s “worried” about me.
Wanting to come back home so he can make sure I’m okay.
Attempting to weasel his way back into my good graces.
That’s not going to happen.
Especially since I had a taste of what a real man can do—saving me from falling ceilings—and what a real man can do between the sheets…or rather, between my legs.
That orgasm…
