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“Your boss really ought to provide you with air conditioning,” I joke.
Hudson whirls around, and when he sees me, his face lights up. He wraps me up in a hug, and I enjoy the scent of hard work that permeates his shirt. There’s no doubt he’s the boss around this place: he’s strong, rugged, and tanned from years of work outside.
“You should talk,” he jokes. “Lady who works outside all day every day even in a hundred-degree weather.”
I laugh. “That’s not true. When it gets that hot, I don’t run the wheel until after sundown. Otherwise, the metal lap bars are too hot to the touch.”
He kisses the top of my head and takes the cooler out of my hand.
“Always thinking of others,” he says.
“Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t,” I say.
He unzips the cooler. “No meatballs today?”
“Meatballs are a treat. I can’t let you eat garbage every day.”
He shoves the end of the sandwich in his mouth and smiles at me
. Through a mouthful of food, he mumbles, “I’d be lost without you, Frenchie.”
I’d be revolted if it were anyone but Hudson. I’m so used to this, as we’ve been eating at the same table since primary school.
“Where are the kids?” Hudson asks, referring to the neighbor’s pugs. Sometimes Justin’s pugs tag along with me to work. Our neighborhood is kind of unique in that we all look out for each other’s animals, and dogs often roam from house to house for love and treats. But the season is quickly becoming too hot to keep pugs outside for long.
“Well, try not to freak out, but my mom is watching them, along with the cats.”
Hudson slowly chews and swallows his food before replying to this. I know what he’s thinking. But he’s trying to be diplomatic. His eyebrows raised in surprise, he asks, “You think that’s a good idea?”
I take a deep breath. “I know. But she’s really trying. If she can do something as simple as taking care of my cats, she can maybe walk some of my neighbors’ dogs, and then she can have a real employment reference when she’s trying for other jobs.”
He nods thoughtfully. I know he’s protective of me. “Just be careful.”
“I am.”
“I’m not going to lie; I don’t trust her,” he says.
I nod in understanding, remembering the last time we spent any time with my mom, Jenny.
That was shortly before she ended up in rehab. She’s a good person, but she’s totally unreliable when she relapses and drinks. And she relapses a lot.
“I’ll be on my guard. At least she’s not asking to stay in my trailer with me.”
“Where would she sleep anyway? In the wheel well?”
I chuckle. “She’s small enough; she probably could.”
We both laugh at this image, and then something passes between us. I feel Hudson’s protectiveness even stronger today. I’m reminded of my dream this morning. The sight of him and his rough, calloused hands working on a boat engine triggered more details from the dream as soon as I walked into the shed. I don’t have the wherewithal to keep from blushing around him, and the air around us feels different to me.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I ask.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re expecting chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes when all you have is a chicken sandwich and chips and homemade cookies?”
He looks at me like there’s something important he wants to say and then hesitates.
Just then, my phone dings. I’ve got a text message.
