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I look at the third-floor balcony to see a man with close-cropped dark hair grinning at me. Broad shoulders, chiseled arms. Gorgeous as hell.
My eyes widen.No way. No. Freaking. Way.He was only ten when I babysat him.
"Hudson?"
His grin widens. “Yup, it’s me.”
“Prove it.”
He points to the tattoo of the Little Prince and a flock of wild birds on my shoulder. “When you were going to get that tat, you tried to take me with you, but they told you no kids allowed, so you had to wait till you got a day off.”
“You’ve got a good memory.”
“Mom also showed me a feature about you from a few years ago,” he says. “A day in the life of an award-winning photojournalist.”
“I can’t believe you remember that.” I tell myself he's being kind. The feature was about the life of two photojournalists who happened to be married to each other, although it mainly covered Barry, who was more experienced.
“Stay there. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
My heart skips a beat as he disappears from the balcony.That’s Hudson now? The boy I used to babysit? No way.
But as he steps out of the front patio wearing nothing but a pair of blue and gray board shorts, I can’t help but stare at a perfect set of pecs and six-pack abs.
Holy hell, but Hudson Sloane is all grown up, and he’s gorgeous.
“Wow, itreallyis you. What are the odds that we’d run into each other again?” He frowns as he stops a few feet from me, standing behind the low fence separating both properties. “You do remember me, right?”
“Of course I do.” I’m totally lying because the man in front of me looks nothing like the sweet little boy I remember, although there are similarities. Like his sparkling blue eyes, for one, and his easygoing smile. Ruffled hair that often would have a life of its own.
If he were only eight when I first babysat him, that would make him 28 now, and he’s looking mighty fine. “I’m more surprised that you remember me.”
“It was a great summer. You helped me with my volleyball game, and you didn’t mind watchingIce Ageagain and again.”
“And again.” I laugh. “You loved the squirrel.”
He grins. “Scrat.”
His parents were classical musicians who performed almost every night that summer. After I left for college, they kept in touch for two years, letting me know how Hudson was doing. Somewhere along the way, I got a new cell phone number and never bothered to update them.
“How are your parents?”
“They’re great. They live in Boston now,” he replies. “They got offered positions with the symphony, but I stayed here because of school. They come down now and then and harass me about giving them grandkids.”
“I guess that’s what parents do when you get a certain age.” My parents eventually gave up asking me and Barry about kids, focusing their time doting on my brother’s kids instead. “So, what’s up with you? You still in college?”
Hudson gives me an offended look. “I finished college years ago.”
“You could be pursuing your Masters’s in something.”
“Been there, done that. Finance. USC.”
I whistle. “Ooh, beautyandbrains.”
He rolls his eyes. “Enough about me. What about you?”
Where do I start? I got a scholarship in journalism before earning my master’s in photojournalism. Went on feature assignments to some of the world’s most beautiful (sometimes dangerous) places. Married a famous photojournalist along the way and, most recently, caught him cheating with a young photographer. Promptly filed for divorce, which was finalized three months ago—a quick decision thanks to not having children with him.
“Things are good,” I reply, spreading my arms. “I’m here.”
