Besides the ridiculously cool library, which a quick trip through shows is mostly devoted to ancient philosophy, plays and poetry from all eras, and modern-day mystery-thrillers, there’s also a whole section of the undercroft that Hudson has devoted to his very extensive, very eclectic vinyl collection. Next to that are shelves filled with photographic equipment, which surprises me, since I had no idea he even liked to take pictures beyond the requisite selfies all vampires take, since they can’t see their reflection in mirrors. There’s also a couple of top-of-the-line printers, including a 3-D one and some impressive-looking stereo equipment.

To be fair, I just listen to music on my phone or laptop, so I don’t know for sure. But it definitely looks state of the art…and expensive.

Next is the small sitting area, which has a desk and an oversize couch, not to mention a couple of purple chairs that look like they were stolen from one of the lounges upstairs. Past that is a space about four arches long that is completely empty, if you discount the different-size targets attached to three sides of the arches. They’re all banged up and gouged, and I have no idea what they’re for—until I see the workbench against the wall and realize it’s loaded with axes.

Hudson throws axes. And, judging from the number of knicks and gouges near the targets’ bull’s-eyes, he throws them pretty damn well—which, in its own way, is as unexpected as the photography equipment.

The final section of the room is obviously where he sleeps. It’s dominated by a huge king-size bed that’s so high off the ground, I’m not sure I could even climb onto it. Not that I’m thinking of climbing onto Hudson’s bed, because I’m definitely not. But if I were, I don’t think I could manage it without some help.

And its height isn’t even the most spectacular thing about the bed. No, that belongs to the elaborate iron bed frame that pretty much screams I’m a vampire and the bloodred bedding that only underscores the point.

It’s part hilarious—because Hudson really is the most sarcastically unapologetic vampire I’ve ever met—and part sexy as fuck, because I can’t help but picture him lying half naked in the middle of this bed, his skin warm with sleep and his usually perfect hair all messed up.

It’s a really good picture, so good, in fact, that my cheeks are burning even before I hear a thud sound behind me.

43

My Grace

I have about one second to register that I was right about Hudson stealing the chairs from one of the study rooms—the sound I heard was him putting another one down next to the couch.

“Oh, hey!” My voice is about three notes higher than usual as I try to pretend that he didn’t just catch me imagining him half naked while staring at his I-can-fuck-you-senseless-several-times-in-a-row bed. “I know I’m early, but—”

My throat closes up completely as I realize he’s more than noticed the color of my cheeks. Not to mention that he is currently looking between his bed and me with what can only be described as a desperate look in his eyes.

My whole body goes hot, then cold, then hot again, and for a second, there’s nothing but Hudson and me and the inferno incinerating everything between us.

But then he blinks and he’s just Hudson again, standing twenty feet in front of me with a sardonic look in his eyes and a second chair balanced against his hip. “But?” he asks, quirking one perfect, rich mahogany brow.

“Oh, umm. I, umm, wanted to…” I trail off as my brain stops working at the sight of his very nice muscles bunching just a little under his striped oxford shirt as he shifts to put the chair down.

“Wanted to…?” Now both brows are up.

And that’s when it hits me. “You’re wearing jeans.” And not just any jeans—ripped and well-worn and so, so sexy jeans. At least on him. “You never wear jeans.”

“I’ve been alive more than two hundred years, Grace. Never is a long time.” He straightens up the chair he just put down, then ambles toward me with a slow, measured walk that gets me even more flustered. I swear, it should be illegal for anyone to look this good. I lick my suddenly too-dry lips.

Hudson stops a few feet in front of me, and the look on his face is so watchful, I can’t help wondering what my face looks like. Which then makes me so nervous that I furiously rack my brain, looking for something to say that does not involve me wanting to climb on his…bed.

What I end up with is, “You have a turntable.”

Oh my God. This boy lived in my brain for weeks, and we never shut up. All of a sudden, I can barely form a coherent sentence around him. What. The. Everlasting. Hell is going on?

From the way Hudson is slowly nodding, I figure he’s probably wondering the same thing. But instead of calling me on my weirdness, he must decide to just roll with it, because he says, “Yeah. I’ve been collecting vinyl since it came out.”

“Oh, right. ’Cause you were…”

The brow is back up. “I was…”

“Alive then.” Jesus. Could I sound any more incoherent if I tried? I clear my throat. “Can you turn something on?”

“Now?”

“Yeah, my best friend in San Diego loves vinyl. Her name’s Heather and—”

“I know who Heather is.” He walks past me, and I nearly have a heart attack thinking he’s going to get on the bed, but then he just walks to the nightstand and picks up a controller. “What do you want to listen to?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. Whatever you’ve got on the table will be great.”

For a moment, it looks like he’s going to say something, but then he just shrugs and hits a button. Seconds later, dark, hard rock music comes through the small speakers he’s got positioned all over the room. I don’t recognize the music or the lyrics that suddenly flood the air. But that’s nothing unusual, considering Hudson’s and Jaxon’s musical tastes likely span a century.

“What song is this?” I ask.

“Godsmack’s ‘Love-Hate-Sex-Pain,’” he answers.

“That’s…” Oh my God. The universe is fucking with me. It’s just…fucking with me. Or Hudson is; I don’t know which at this point. Maybe both of them. “Interesting.”

“You want me to put something else on?” he asks, and I swear he’s laughing at me, even though he’s totally keeping a straight face.

“No, it’s fine. I like it.” I release a long breath as I pull out my phone and text Macy to hurry the fuck up.

“I’ll put something else on.” He heads toward his music area. “I don’t have any Harry Styles, but I’m sure I can find something you’ll like.”

“Hey, don’t knock Harry Styles!” I tell him, then breathe a sigh of relief as I realize I’m back to normal. “He is very talented.”

“I never said he wasn’t.” Hudson shoots me an amused glance. “Paranoid much?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “I know derision when I hear it.”

“When it comes to Harry, I’m pretty sure you hear derision even when there is none,” he counters as he puts another record on the turntable.

He has a point, but it’s not like I’m about to admit it, so I just kind of shrug as the first notes of Lewis Capaldi’s “Grace” start playing. I’ve heard the song once or twice before and loved it, but I don’t know. Something about standing here with Hudson as the lyrics echo through his room has a whole lot of everything welling up inside me.

And when he turns around and looks straight at me just as Lewis sings basically my name over and over, my knees—and everything inside me—go weak. Because there’s nothing sarcastic, nothing witty, nothing distant in Hudson’s eyes.

There’s just him and me and everything remembered and forgotten that stretches between us.

I take a step toward him before I even know I’m going to do it. Then another step and another, until I’m standing right in front of him.

I don’t know what’s happening, don’t know why my heart feels like it’s ricocheting around inside my chest. But the one thing I do know is that whatever it is, Hudson feels it, too.

He lifts one trembling hand toward me but stops inches from my face. I can see the indecision in his eyes, can see him wondering if he should touch me or not—if I want him to or not.

And while I don’t have a clue about the first question, I’ve definitely got an answer to the second. Which is why I take one final shaky step toward him, closing the gap he left between us. I don’t reach for him, but I do lean forward just enough that his fingertips brush against my cheek.

“My Grace,” he whispers so softly that I’m not sure if I imagined it or not. Right before he cups my cheek in the palm of his hand and leans forward.

44

Even If It’s Broke,

Don’t Fix It

I forget how to breathe, and as I stare into Hudson’s shattered eyes, I’m half convinced oxygen isn’t necessary anyway.

At least until Macy calls out, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” as she clomps down the stairs and to my rescue in a pair of chunky heels.

Hudson and I spring apart, and the next thing I know, there’s a loud screech as he yanks the needle off the record so fast that I’m pretty sure he scratched what is fast becoming one of my favorite songs.

In the meantime, I all but throw myself onto the nearest chair—which happens to be a rolling desk chair—and end up sliding right off the other side of it and onto my ass just as Macy careens to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, a plate of cookies in her hand.

Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes wide as her gaze bounces between Hudson and me. “What’d I miss?”