Page 84
“I think,” she said, pulling me down for another kiss, “I’d like to hold you to that.”
Epilogue
The paperback landed on the kitchen floor just as Hudson set two plates on the table.
I rescued it before the corner could crease, then regarded the precarious pile beside the fruit bowl. Six books, a notebook, and a wooden bookmark shaped like a tiny axe had somehow taken up residence there. The bookmark had been Hudson’s contribution. The rest were entirely my doing.
“Want another shelf, honey?” he asked.
“I thought we agreed that one was for the hallway.”
“It is. I’m talking about a second one.”
I looked up at him. He wore an old gray T-shirt and jeans, his sandy hair still damp from the shower. The man spent his weekdays supervising a logging crew and his spare time making furniture, yet he’d apparently decided that accommodating my book-buying habit was a perfectly reasonable use of his Saturday.
“Do you realize how dangerous it is to offer an English-literature graduate unlimited shelving?”
Hudson pulled out my chair. “I figured you’d warn me when we ran out of walls.”
I laughed and leaned up for a kiss before sitting down.
He’d made pear-and-ginger pancakes, with the edges just crisp enough and a dish of warm butter between our plates. Beyond the kitchen window, the wooded hillside glowed with autumn color. Our home was a short drive outside Maple Lane Falls, near enough that I could indulge my fondness for Esther’s Book Nook whenever a new shipment arrived.
Down the hall, my professional recording room shared a wall with Hudson’s timber workshop. He’d waited until I finished Friday’s narration pickups before starting his woodworking, and this morning we had another recording session planned together.
Hudson noticed my glance toward the hallway.
“Thinking about work already?”
“A little,” I admitted, reaching for my fork. “The sequel has arrived, and I’m afraid the trees have gotten worse.”
Hudson settled into the chair opposite me and regarded me over his plate.
“Worse than that Heartwood business? I thought we’d reached the limits of what a respectable tree could be expected to do.”
“Oh, we’ve barely begun exploring the possibilities. Apparently, there’s an enchanted stump with extraordinary magical properties and a ceremonial double-headed axe. I’m particularly interested in hearing your professional assessment of the latter.”
He shook his head, smiling as he reached for the butter.
“I can already tell I’m going to regret agreeing to this one. Though I suppose I should’ve expected trouble when Oliver sent over the manuscript and the first chapter involved somebody arguing with a tree.”
“You agreed because you enjoyed recording the first book,” I reminded him. “And because you happen to be very good at it.”
“Both true. Doesn’t mean I have to approve of the author’s forestry practices.”
I laughed and took another bite of pancake.
The pears were tender, their sweetness balanced by the ginger, and I was pleased to discover that Hudson had made enough for seconds. Our kitchen was wonderfully warm, with sunlight reaching across the big wooden table he’d built shortly after we moved in together. My favorite blue-and-white pottery mugs occupied the open shelf beside his collection of practical, mismatched coffee cups.
Chelsea had taken to Hudson with the same enthusiasm she usually reserved for an exciting new property listing. After their first meeting, she’d informed me that my lumberjack was not only devastatingly handsome but surprisingly well prepared for her questions.
I still wasn’t certain whether she was more impressed by his answers about our future or the fact that he’d willingly accompanied me to three Minneapolis bookshops in one afternoon.
Our families had become comfortably involved in our lives, too. Hudson’s mother regularly invited us over for dinner, and his brothers had discovered that teasing me about my profession was considerably less effective than teasing Hudson about his.
They’d finally stopped asking whether he planned to become an audiobook celebrity, although one of them had recently suggested that Crosscut Logging ought to include his narration credits in the company newsletter.
Hudson had laughed, declined the suggestion, and gone back to discussing a problem with one of the work trucks.
