Page 66 of Lucky Laces
“Thanks for that.”
“Just calling them as I see them.”He reaches for the front door, twists the handle then looks back to grin at me, voice dropping.“Also, if you’re thinking about testing the limits of the stitches again, give it at least twenty-four hours, yeah?”
“I—”
But I don’t get more than that one syllable of what would be a false denial of my involvement in Hudson’s stitches and/or testing their strength because he opens the door, steps outside, and shuts it behind him.
All before I can get another word out.
All before I can so much asthinkof another word to even say.
Men.
Sighing, I just flick the lock and walk back into the living room…
Where Hudson isn’t.
“What the fuck?”I grind out, whipping around, searching for a six-foot-two, two-hundred-fifteen pound hockey player who’s suddenly disappeared into a puff of smoke.
After tearing his stitches.
AfterDoc told him to spend the next ten days on the fuckingcouch.
“Hudson?”
No answer.
“Hudson!”
I sweep into the kitchen, full of piss and vinegar and ready to give the big, stubborn hockey player a piece of my mind.
Then I hear it.
The sound of a toilet flushing, followed by a sink turning on.
A door opens, and Hudson limps out, mouth curving up on one side.“You rang?”
“You’re supposed to be resting,” I say, even though I know it’s ridiculous because it’s not like he was standing here in the kitchen, dancing a jig.He was using the bathroom.
“Don’t be grumpy, DeeDee,” he says, smiling as he tugs my ponytail, not looking at all like the man who was in pain earlier as Doc stitched him up without pain relief.“Now, do you want Chinese or Mexican for dinner?”
Twenty-Two
Hudson
Turnsout that Diana loves Mexican food, so I got to show her one of my favorite places.
Well, byshowI mean I ordered delivery and we both ate our body weight in chips and salsa and chicken and potato enchiladas with green chili sauce and rice.
“This may be the best food I’ve ever had,” she says through a bite of enchilada.
I shove another chip into my mouth and nod in agreement.“Muriel’s is the absolute best,” I say.“I eat there far too often.”
“I can see why.”Her mouth quirks up after she chews and swallows.“And I can also foresee many a delivery order in my future.”
Eventually, our plates are empty and the chips are eaten and we settle back onto the couch—because she demanded that I make the order, and eat, while sitting my ass down on the cushions—and quiet descends.
This isn’t the quiet of shoveling food in our mouths because it’s delicious and we’re starving.
