Page 35 of Her Goal
I want to swat him on the arm, but for some reason, that doesn’t seem like a good idea. Not because I’m afraid he’ll hit me back, but the few times we accidentally touched during the lesson, it burned so good like hot water on my skin after being in the rink too long. I’m not sure I approve of how that makes me feel.
“I’m just checking my facts.”
“You really don’t need to come to the party.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing the old duplex.”
“We moved. They moved. I live in Omaha now.”
“Yeah, the city is better. It’s a shame they moved the arena here.”
“I’d rather be in Cobbiton, but—” He doesn’t need to know that the only apartment I could afford is in a derelict building in a part of town Grant won’t let Valentina go to unless she’s armed.
Of course, I could’ve lived with my parents in perpetuity—Mami would prefer it that way—but there’s something to be said about being on my own.
“Any new restaurants in Omaha? Hot spots you recommend? It’s been a while since I’ve visited.”
I give a vague shake of my head because if it doesn’t come out of a box ready to eat, I have all my meals at my parents’ house on Stowells Street. Mostly because the shared kitchen at my apartment wouldn’t pass health inspections. Also, Julius Cheeser has a big appetite and I try to avoid leaving crumbs.
“Well?” Hudson asks when I don’t answer.
“Yeah, there’s the usual. I don’t spend much time there.”
“Ah, so you’re still a country mouse.” He says as if that’s a bad thing.
I’d kept my claws sheathed until now. “I thought you said I was a cat. Pick one.”
He chuckles. “I’ll go with feline. You’re kind of feral.”
I slant my gaze at him. “I can see why Hunter didn’t want you coming to my family gatherings. You need to work on your charm.”
He chuckles. “In that case, I won’t be taking any pages from my brother’s book.”
An important question at the ready, I open my mouth, but words don’t come out.
He asks, “What do I need to know about your parents’ love story? Where’d they meet? Your mom is from a place that speaks Spanish. There are a lot of those. South America? Central? Spain?”
“She’s from Colombia. Dad was a classical guitarist. She was a dancer. It was hate at first sight.”
His lips part, but I’m not staring at them. “No way. But they’re the sweetest couple.”
“They despised each other. She said he was too cocky. He said she was so feisty and headstrong, she was going to get herself into trouble.”
The corner of Hudson’s mouth now lifts with a lazy half-smile I still sometimes see in my sleep, but it’s the other half—Hunter’s. “The ‘trouble’ being years of wedded bliss, I take it.”
“You’re just trying to infuriate me, aren’t you?”
He frowns, but his tone is teasing, almost flirty. “That’s not out of the question.”
“I’m not that much different from my mother,” I say, meaning the feisty part and belatedly realizing it might also sound flirty given the way she gushed over how handsome he was.
I mean, Hudson is objectively good-looking. When Valentina meets someone new, she asks them which is the hottest Chris: Chris Pine, Chris Pratt, Chris Evans, or Chris Hemsworth. There’s no wrong answer. Hers is Pratt because he and Grant look strikingly alike. It’s also a way to gauge what kind of person they are, I guess.
You might say Hudson is a combination of all four. I tell myself that makes him hideous, but that’s a big lie because my bucket list boyfriend is, er, was his twin.
But Hudson’s angular jaw is freshly shaved unlike how Hunter’s was riddled with bristly stubble as if he’d come in last place at a beard-growing contest.
This twin has effortlessly tousled hair that a gal could run her fingers through, while Hunter meticulously spiked his with gel and had a hands-off policy, even though I had an urgent curiosity to touch it like when confronted with a sleeping porcupine.
