Page 41 of Her Goal
Voice flat, I say, “Why would I care?”
I know better than to mistake Hudson’s expression for defeat, but he nods and then starts to walk away.
“You don’t have to be here,” I call, feeling more and more like a jerk each time I say it. But I want him to relent, to admit that he hates me, and leave.
My words stop him, and he looks at me for another long moment. “I know, but maybe I want to be.”
I rock back slightly, not expecting the sincerity in his voice. There’s something else, too, that I can’t place. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it’s longing. That can’t be right.
His house was always a quiet refuge from this madness, so it must be overwhelming him. Why would he want kids bumping into him while they play a rousing game of “keep up the balloon,” Aunt Nelly repeatedly replacing his drink as if he’s been thirsting in the desert for the last eight years, and all this background noise?
Like a mafioso, my mother will breakmylegs if she finds out how rude I’ve been to Hudson, so I grab somepolvorosasfrom a nearby table.
“Peace offering?” he asks when I hold out the small dessert plate in front of him.
“Are we at war?”
“You tell me.” He takes a bite.
I can’t help but watch how his lips close around the cookie and his eyes dip as if the taste is just as he remembers.
I find it hard to believe that Hunter, my best friend and his brother, told him not to come to our family gatherings. If that’s true, why? I’m starting to run out of room for questions.
With half the cookie in his hand, he gestures to our surroundings. “Glad to find out what I was missing all this time.”
“You mean the rampant chaos?”
“I like it.”
“We’ve been standing here long enough for you to debate whether your abs can afford to eat three small cookies and have been interrupted a half dozen times.”
He wears a half smile. “The cookies are worth it.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t say thank you.”
My lips part slightly with surprise. So he can be feisty too. Let’s go, Big Guy. He has powdered sugar on his chin, which makes me want to reflexively point and laugh … or tenderly wipe it away.
Before I can, he says, “It’s refreshing to see a happily married couple, celebrating their lives together.”
Oh, so he’s sentimental too.
“Anyone special in your life?” Hudson asks, eyes alighting on mine.
And nosy.
“Do you mean like a boyfriend?” I reach up and brush the sugar from his chin, my fingers gritting against his hint of stubble.
His lips quirk upon contact and his voice is slightly rougher than before when he adds, “Or a fiancé, husband?”
“That escalated quickly.”
“I haven’t seen you in years.”
My mouth betrays me when I say, “I’ve been to several of your games.”
He bobs his eyebrows. “Checking me out?”
