Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Whitney

A delicious aroma roused me from a deep slumber. I inhaled the delectable fragrance. Was that…chicken? My stomach growled, complaining that I hadn't eaten breakfast.

The low slant of the sunlight told me it was late in the day. Had Hudson stayed all day? And cooked? I frowned. Why would he do that? He'd already gone above and beyond, and I didn't want to be a burden.

I slipped out of bed—dislodging a grumpy Mr. Darcy—showered, and dressed in a soft T-shirt, joggers, and fuzzy socks. Padding into the kitchen, I found Hudson leaning against the counter by the stove, scrolling on his phone.

He looked up at my footsteps and straightened to attention. "How do you feel?" His brown eyes brimmed with concern.

"Better." My muscles would be sore for a few days, but my headache was gone. "Something smells good."

"I made chicken noodle soup."

I strode to the stove and peered into a steaming pot. Shredded chicken, diced carrots, celery, and egg noodles simmered in a golden broth. My mouth watered. "You made homemade soup?"

He shrugged. "Sort of. I didn't make the broth myself. There wasn't time."

My eyes widened. He normally made his own broth?

"And if you're up for it, I have grilled cheese sandwiches." He pointed to the island, where three sandwiches lay on a cutting board, ready for the pan. "Comfort food."

My heart warmed at his thoughtfulness. "Thank you. What can I do?" It was my apartment, after all.

He retrieved a pan from a cabinet as if he knew his way around my kitchen. Maybe he already did. "You can set the table while I grill these sandwiches." He placed the pan on the stove and turned on the heat.

I set the table and sat down. I folded my napkin into quarters. Then into eighths. Hudson had seen me at my lowest and most vulnerable, and embarrassed didn't come close to describing how I felt. To have a seizure in front of a man I—heat crept up my cheeks, and I balled up my napkin in my fist. I was mortified.

"Can I…ask you a question about your epilepsy?"

I'd just as soon ignore the elephant in the room. I hated feeling weak. But witnessing my seizure must have shocked Hudson, and I owed him answers. "What do you want to know?"

"What causes your seizures?" He slid the sandwiches onto the hot pan.

"I have a birth anomaly in my brain right here." I pointed to the top of my head, slightly to the left, and he turned to look.

His forehead knit with concern. "Is it genetic?"

"No, and I can't pass it down to my children." Thank God.

"Is it operable? Would that cure your seizures?" Using a spatula, he peeked under the edge of a sandwich. Apparently satisfied, he expertly turned them.

I shook my head. "No. Medication is the only treatment."

He crossed his arms, spatula in hand, and leaned against the counter. His brows drew together. "Do you have someone to take care of you if I'm not around?"

I scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He held up his hand, placating. "I just mean, do you have family in the area? A friend you could call if it happened again and I'm on the road?"

I sat up straight and squared my shoulders. "I'm fine on my own." I had been for nine long months since my parents died. A pang knifed through my heart so sharply I had to school my features. My grandmother was still alive, but I never told her when I had a seizure. There was nothing she could do from Virginia but worry.

Warm brown eyes met mine. "But you shouldn't have to be on your own," he said gently. He grabbed plates from a cupboard and flipped the sandwiches onto them. "Beck told me you met Hope." He shut off the burners and ladled soup into bowls. "I'll give you her number. You can use her as an emergency contact when I'm out of town or unavailable." He nodded decisively. "She'd be devastated if anything happened to you and she wasn't there to help."

I supposed that accepting help from Hope wouldn't be so bad. A flicker of warmth ignited within me. Maybe we could even get to know each other better. The idea of forging a friendship with Hope, of having someone nearby to laugh with and confide in filled me with a quiet yearning. My friends had all moved away or fallen by the wayside for one reason or another, and my last serious boyfriend had broken up with me my senior year in college. For too long, my acquaintances had been confined to the computer, my writer- friends all online. The prospect of a flesh-and-blood, local friend sparked a glimmer of interest within me.

Hudson placed soup and a grilled cheese sandwich in front of me. The bread was a perfect, toasted brown. I tore the sandwich in half and the melted cheese oozed from the sides. Yum. Taking a bite, I savored the buttery, rich flavors. The soup was even more delicious, with a hint of savory herbs. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

He chuckled. "It's just soup and sandwiches."

"But it's fantastic soup and sandwiches. You can cook for me every day."

He cleared his throat. "About that." He carefully placed his spoon in his bowl and met my gaze. "We should get married."

I dropped my sandwich onto my plate. " What? "

He held up a hand. "Hear me out. It makes complete sense."

"What are you talking about? It makes no sense at all!" I squeaked.

"Listen. If we get married, I can put you on my health insurance plan. I already checked—your medication would cost forty dollars per month. Just forty dollars !"

"I'm not a charity case." I gritted my teeth.

"I would benefit, too. We'd really get married, but we'd fake our relationship." He sucked in a deep breath. "Because I need to repair my reputation."

I stilled. "Because of the threesome and the picture on Instagram." My voice was flat.

His cheeks grew pink. "Yeah. That drunken night was a huge mistake. Getting married to a respectable author would go a long way toward redeeming my public image. I want to be a role model to youth in hockey again. We'd both score."

My gut curdled and I frowned. Did I want to be used that way? "I always thought I'd marry for love, not a publicity stunt." Benjamin's accusation rang in my head. You're in love with love.

His voice hardened. "Forget love. I've been burned before, and I'll never fall in love again."

I softened my tone. "A marriage without love? What good is it, then?"

"It's an arrangement that helps us both." He clenched his jaw.

"What about Gramps? Would we tell him the truth?"

He shook his head. "We couldn't tell anyone because of the legal ramifications. But I know Gramps would be happy for us."

I pushed my plate away, my appetite gone. "No. I can't do it. I won't marry for anything but love, and I can't lie to Gramps. And what about my grandmother? Would I have to lie to her, too?"

He raked a hand through his short, dark hair and blew out a breath. "Just…think about it."

But as we cleaned up the kitchen in tense silence, I already knew my answer.

Reassuring Hudson I would be fine for the night, I shut the door behind him. I leaned my back against it and shook my head. Marriage.

I was a romantic—I wrote romance novels, for goodness' sake. I'd always wanted to get married, even as a little girl. I'd dressed up as a bride for Halloween. My Barbie doll married Ken with all my stuffed animals in attendance. As an adult, I had a private Pinterest board chock full of ideas for bridal gowns, wedding venues, ceremonies, and receptions. I longed for a real-life hero who loved me. One who looked at me as if I hung the stars. And I yearned to look at him as if he hung the moon.

I thought I'd found my hero in my ex-boyfriend, Benjamin. We were together for two years in college. But when I'd finally gathered the courage to tell him I loved him and wanted to spend my life with him, he'd been incredulous. He'd thought we were temporary—a college fling—and I'd thought we had a future. I'd completely misread the situation and vowed to never make that mistake again. My heart still bore the bruises from his rejection.

My shoulders slumped, I strode to the counter and the prescription bottle waiting for me. I'd promised Hudson I'd take the full dosage when he'd drawn a glass of water and left it beside the medicine. I dumped a pill into my hand, one of only a dozen left. Here goes fifteen dollars, down the hatch. I gagged on the bitter, chalky tablet. Fifteen dollars per pill, when I could pay forty dollars for the entire bottle.

Could I do it? Could I marry for health insurance and a publicity stunt?

Could I trust a man who'd gotten caught in a drunken threesome?

And what about Grandma? I'd have to lie to her and put off moving to Virginia. Could she manage without me?

My stomach jangled as my cat wound around my ankles. "What should I do, Mr. Darcy?" It was a marriage-of-convenience trope, but in real life.

What would my heroine do?

I hustled to my desk, sat in front of my laptop, and opened a new document.

And plotted a marriage of convenience.