suctioned in place, and all I can think about is how crazy-ass wild my eyebrows probably are right now.
“You don’t have an accent.” My friend stops in front of my mystery kisser, arms folded over her chest as she levels her pointless accusation. Somehow, she found the time to put on her glasses and twist her blonde hair up into a cute knot on top of her head. And she’s in pants! Where did she find pants?
“I do not…unless you count Arizonan as one?” His right brow arches as his mouth tightens. The movement of his face draws my focus to his jawline, and I robotically begin to curl my hands at my sides from the memory of how that jaw felt.
“Hardly,” Shay huffs.
Her exaggerated disappointment must amuse him. He laughs, and it’s warm and raspy. I’m starting to get really hot in this stupid sweatshirt, but I don’t dare take it off.
“Sorry, we thought you were an exchange student.” I screw up my mouth and scrunch my eyes, wishing I didn’t lump myself in with Shay’s lame reasoning and assessment.
“Because I have red hair?” His furrowed brow begs for my response. I nod briefly, and my cheeks burn amber.
“Haha, that’s funny. There are redheads in America. Like…some of us are born here.” His eyes kind of dance when he talks, and he chews at his lip like he’s rethinking the words he just said. His tall body bounces where he stands as he pushes his hands deep into his pockets and looks down at his feet.
He’s adorable. And he’s nervous.
“I’m Frankie,” I begin, reaching my hand forward and forgetting move my feet. I’m reminded by the sloppy tumble I take down the steps, switching my outstretched palm for a full, double-fisted superhero dive. I’m caught in a pair of very warm—very strong—arms before I face plant. My nose is close enough to soak in the faint dash of cologne he bothered to splash on for this unannounced visit. The smell of wood and honey lulls me under a temporary spell, breaking the second I feel his index finger flatten out my disheveled eyebrow. Correction…eyebrows. He does them both.
Shay snorts out a laugh. I give her a sideways glance.
“Nice to meet you, formally, Frankie.” His left hand is still cupping my shoulder as I steady my feet and find my balance. The fingers on his right hand hover clumsily near my face, as if he’s searching for more things to straighten out like he did my eyebrows.
“Hudson,” he blurts out. The two syllables are so short that they blast by my ears. I don’t register his name at first, not until I’m tugging down my sweatshirt while searching for something clever to say to make him stick around. I might have missed it all together and gone on with my Devin Kevin Heaven rhyme if my dad—whose bowl mixing has not been out of earshot since he came to my room—didn’t invite himself into the conversation.
“Hudson, nice to meet you. I’m Frankie’s dad, Mike. Retired PD. You new ’round here?” My dad continues to mix vigorously, even as Hudson—that’s not even close to Devin or Kevin, by the way—reaches out to shake his hand. He waits a full five seconds before dropping the spoon in the bowl, matching Hudson’s grip with a flexed forearm, showing his PD tattoo.
“My dad’s about to retire from the force back home. It’s just my mom and me here right now, but when he’s done next month, he’ll sell the house and join us.”
I can practically taste the love affair as it unfolds before me. Mystery Hudson has quickly shot up to my dad’s top prospect slot for suitors. If he drops a few stats about Pacers basketball or Ball State University, I’m as good as betrothed.
“What’s his department?” my dad asks, handing me the bowl. The mixture is soupy, so I carry it to the kitchen to add more pancake powder. I need to busy myself while I eavesdrop and freak out over the fact that this is all literally happening right now.
“Arizona State Troopers. He put in twenty-four years, only got shot once.” My eyes flutter closed. My dad’s been shot twice. He’s going to brag.
“That it, huh?” I don’t even have to turn around to picture the tilt of my dad’s mustache that marks his braggart grin. Mike Torres doesn’t miss an opportunity to show off the scar tissue on each bicep. Double Guns—that’s what the guys at the department called him.