Page 41 of Slap Shot
Every morning when I get up, his dirty plates are arranged neatly in the dishwasher. The sink is clean, and there’s hardly a trace of him to be found.
The only sign he’s been there is a different sticky note on the counter. Always in the same place—right by the stove—and always with the same message: athank youscribbled in his messy handwriting.
With a little smiley face in the bottom right corner.
It’s a silly thing. Something I wouldn’t usually notice, and I don’t know why it makes me laugh when I’m groggy and sleep-deprived.
But it does.
Our schedules barely overlap, and besides the meals I leave for him, it’s like Lucy and I live in his big condo alone. She loves the space, loves spending time with Gus and Millie. She’s taken to sitting in the sun that sneaks through the living room curtains late in the afternoon while she reads her book, the dogs never more than a few feet away. I’ve caught the three of them napping on the couch, and wherever Lucy goes, Gus and Millie are hot on her heels.
I yawn and stretch my arms above my head as I walk down the hall. It’s just after six and I’m desperate for a cup of coffee. My body is screaming for caffeine after I stayed up too late last night planning out this week’s menu for Hudson to review.
My eyes can barely open past a squint. My neck hurts from staring at my computer for hours while laying on my side, and it’s becoming scarily obvious I’m not in my twenties anymore.
When I get to the kitchen, I freeze. There’s a tall, imposing figure lurking in the shadows by the coffee maker. My hand comes up to cover my mouth, and the edges of my vision turn hazy.Shit.No no no. Did I lock the door last night? My heart surges up to my throat, and I fight the urge to turn back and barricade myself in Lucy’s room.
I look around and search for a weapon. The knives are too far away, and a ladle won’t cause enough damage. Somewhere in my subconscious, I know I’m about to make a stupid decision, but I rush forward and grab a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter. Pulling my arm back behind my head, I launch the fruit at the mass of a man as hard as I can.
“What the fuck?”
The voice that fills the dark kitchen is deep and scratchy and—Oh. I’ve definitely heard it before.
Hudson spins around with a cup in his hand, and I’m not too humiliated to register relief that it’s not, in fact, an intruder.
“Madeline?”
“Hi,” I say weakly. “Wh-what are you doing here?”
“I live here.”
“I thought you were getting back from Seattle this afternoon.”
“We left late last night because of inclement weather. Got in forty-five minutes ago, and I’m a zombie.” He bends and scoops the banana off the floor. “Did you hurl this at me?”
“No. I’d never assault my employer after mistaking him for a burglar. Especially after he invited me and my daughter to live in his nice home.”
Hudson’s mouth twitches. He sets the offending item on the island between us and takes a slow sip of his coffee. “Must’ve been the ghosts,” he says in a level voice, but a laugh cracks through the last word. “They act up every now and then. Kudos to them for wanting to protect the condo.”
“That explains the creaking I heard a couple nights ago.” I see a mark on his neck, a light pink indentation below his ear, and I wince. “Shit. I—the ghosts—really landed that throw, huh?”
“It’s my fault. I should’ve given you—sorry,them—a heads-up I was getting home this morning so there weren’t any surprises.”
“The ghosts are delirious, and you startled them. It won’t happen again.”
“At least it wasn’t an apple. That might’ve earned me a concussion, and I’m not sure how I’d explain to Coach I was injured by paranormal spirits.”
“I forgot to tell you I’m actually the Grim Reaper masquerading as a chef.”
“Is the Grim Reaper a woman?”
“She is now.”
“Secret’s out.” Hudson flashes me a full smile, and the beam wakes me up. So does the thin white shirt that shows off a sliverof skin on his stomach—the thing is like a damn crop top—and the sweatpants sitting low on his hips. “Want some coffee?”
“Yes, please,” I say, and his eyes flick to my thighs for the quickest of seconds.
The heat of his gaze causes me to look down and realize, horrifyingly, I’m in an oversized shirt that hit inches above my knees, socks that come halfway up my calves, and no fucking pants.
