Until You Loved Me (Silver Springs #3)(83)

“Has it gotten her in trouble already?” Bruiser asked.

Hudson felt his eyebrows come together. “What do you mean?”

“Never mind.”

Hudson gestured at the table. “Are you going to play or what?”

“I have to leave in a few minutes, get back to my family.”

“That’s why we need to finish this game.”

“I’d rather talk while we have the chance.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“You seem to admire Ellie,” Bruiser said, ignoring Hudson’s last statement.

“I do.” That was honest.

“So what’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Something’s off between you two. I ask about her every time we catch up on the phone, and you always give me the same story. You’re getting along fine—nothing romantic going on but you’re good friends. Yada yada.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“That’s what you say, but there’s this deep...reservoir of feeling under the surface.”

“Stop trying to create something that isn’t there.”

“Oh, it’s there all right...”

“She got pregnant because of a one-night stand. You know that—you’re the only one who knows it.” Hudson bent over the table to take a shot, dropping two balls with a satisfying clack, thunk.

“The last time I came out here, she had love bites all over her neck.”

“We messed around a little at first,” he admitted.

“I’m wondering why that stopped.”

So did Hudson—except he sort of understood. Ellie didn’t want anything that didn’t include commitment, and he didn’t want anything that did. “I guess she’s not interested.”

“That’s bullshit. She can’t take her eyes off you. And you can’t take your eyes off her. But you dance around each other as if you’re afraid you might actually touch.”

“She’s pregnant, man! I’m not looking at her like that,” he said, even though nothing could’ve been further from the truth.

Bruiser came closer and lowered his voice. “Making love doesn’t hurt the baby. I was worried about that, too, when Jacqueline started showing. So I asked her to check with her doc, and her doc told her she could have sex up until delivery.”

“There are other considerations.”

“Like...”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it. Can we finish this game before you go?”

Bruiser shook his head. “You’re so damn stubborn. Ellie’s special, Hudson. Don’t let her get away.”

He thought the same, but she demanded too much. “I thought you were leery of her—afraid she might be trying to trap me.”

“I changed my mind. She’s one of the most sincere people I’ve ever met.”

“We’re better off as friends,” Hudson insisted, but it made him sad to say that, because he knew Bruiser was right. She’d make a great choice for a life partner. He’d never known anyone he liked as well. And she was already pregnant with his child. She just deserved more—more love and trust and devotion—than he could ever give.

And he was afraid if he let her get too close, she’d realize he wasn’t worth loving after all.

*

The sound of someone banging on the front door dragged Hudson from his sleep. That wasn’t a sound he heard often. He lived behind a security fence, which kept most unwanted visitors away. But he couldn’t remember closing the gate after the fund-raiser last night.

Actually, no, he hadn’t closed it. He’d left it open for Bruiser and hadn’t even mentioned to Bruiser that he should take care of it on his way out.

When the banging continued, Hudson wondered if the gardeners needed something. They were the only people he could imagine having a reason to bother him this early. It was only eight. Maybe they couldn’t rouse Maggie—or she was out, doing the shopping or whatever.

Intent on stopping the noise before it disturbed Ellie, he rolled out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered, taking the stairs two at a time.

What Hudson could see of his visitor told him it wasn’t one of the gardeners. The tall man who waited on his stoop had to be in his midseventies. He was wearing a flannel shirt buttoned to the top, his gray hair slicked back as if he’d made an attempt to look presentable.

Who was this? The guy seemed nervous, kept fidgeting and glancing over his shoulder.

Some sports fan had tracked him down, Hudson figured. Perhaps one of the locals had bragged about having him in town and had given up the location of his home, most likely at the bar last night. This guy looked as if he lived in a bottle.

“What can I do for you?” he asked as he opened the door.

The man’s rheumy eyes swept over Hudson—taking in his mussed hair, his lack of a shirt, his sweats and then his bare feet before rising to meet his eyes.

Whoever it was, he’d lived a hard life, Hudson decided. He had a scar on his cheek, was far too thin and reeked of cigarette smoke. Had he been drinking, too? Was that what’d given him the courage to approach the house and knock as if he had a right to barge in on someone who already received far too much attention from strangers?