Page 91 of None Of Your Business

I stop in the doorway. “Thank you for last night. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you like that, and I definitely shouldn’t have dumped all of that on you, and I’m going to work now, so…”

“Rowan—”

“Why are you still here?”

He takes a sip of coffee. “Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”

“I don’t need a morning check-in, Hudson. You don’t get to stay overnight and make yourself at home like I’m some unstable patient.”

“I stayed because you fell asleep in my arms while sobbing.” His voice is devoid of any anger. “And I made coffee because I needed caffeine.”

“Well, I’m fine.” My cheeks burn with humiliation. “I had too much to drink, I threw myself a pathetic little pity party, and now it’s over.”

I want him to argue with me, but he doesn’t flinch. He just sets his mug down and watches me lash out like a cornered animal. His refusal to take the bait only makes me angrier.

“I’m going to my studio,” I bite out, turning on my heel. “Lock the door on your way out.”

I grab my keys and practically march to the warehouse.

My mother’s canvas is where I left it last night, staring back at me.

Two minutes later, the studio door opens again.

Hudson steps inside, holding his coffee in one hand and his laptop bag in the other.

I turn around, incredulous. “What are you doing?”

He walks past my easels, sets his coffee on the side table, and drops his laptop bag onto the couch in the corner.

“I have work to catch up on. The light in here is better than your kitchen.”

“I told you to leave.”

“And I’m choosing to work here. You can paint, you can ignore me, or you can shout at me, but I’m not leaving.”

“Why?” I demand, my hands shaking at my sides.

Without a word, he advances toward me.

I swallow hard. “Why can’t you just leave?”

“Is that what you want?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. My chest is rising and falling too fast.

I turn away from him, trying to settle myself, but his hand catches the inside of my elbow.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks again.

I stare at him, throat too tight for words.

His thumb moves in slow circles against my skin.

I close my eyes, defeated. The anger drains from me all at once, leaving me hollow and raw. My eyes sting as the defensive armor I’ve worn all morning crumbles to dust.

“No,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “But it’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”