Page 20 of Unwrapped
Camille hops down from the counter and approaches with a worried look on her face. “Are you OK, Hudson?”
He straightens and ambles past her, opening the walk-in pantry. “I’ve been looking for you. Let’s talk business,” he commands, addressing a few cereal boxes and cans of soup. Then he steps inside—without turning on the light—and closes the door behind him like it’s a private office.
Her brows knit together. “What the hell’s wrong with him?”
“You want a list?”
“I’m serious, Dean. He’s acting weird.”
“He’s fine.” I stare at the door, half expecting him to jump out and scare us like a demented jack-in-the-box. “He’s sleepwalking.”
Of all the people in this house, accident prone Hudson has to be the one who sleepwalks? This has disaster written all over it. My boner decides to call it a day, deflating like a sad balloon.
“What should we do?” She smooths her hair and fixes her shirt.
“Nothing. When he comes out of there, I’ll walk him back upstairs, so he doesn’t hurt hims—”
Something crashes inside the closet, followed by a thud. Camille’s widened gaze snaps to mine.
“Son of a bitch.” I rush over and yank the door open.
Hudson’s sprawled on his back. The shelf that once held canisters of uncooked pasta is now on the floor beside him with all its contents. I can’t help but chuckle at the sight of him covered in macaroni and broken lasagna noodles, holding an open canister of rigatoni like a football.
My presence seems to register because he asks, “Why’d he hit me?”
“No one hit you, man.”
“He shoved me off the barstool.”
“You were sleepwalking,” Camille says softly, stooping to retrieve the canister he’s holding.
He hugs it to his chest. “No, no. I need this for the plants.”
“Holy shit, I think he’s still asleep.” She presses the back of her hand to his forehead. “He doesn’t feel like he’s burning up or anything.”
The noise roused someone else—or several someones—because now there are footsteps coming down the stairs.
Jude rushes into the room, followed by Jordana. “What was that crash?”
“Is everyone OK?” Jordana stops short beside me, her eyes widening when she spots Hudson. “Oh my God, what happened?”
“Quiet,” Camille says, holding her finger to her lips. “He’s still asleep.”
Jude’s eyes dart from the spilled pasta littering the pantry to the open oven. “Please tell me he wasn’t trying to cook.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I have no clue what his plans were, but he’s lucky he didn’t set the place on fire.”
“Or fall down the fucking stairs,” Jordana hisses, wringing her hands. “He’s not even awake, and the moron isstillcausing problems.”
Jude scans the kitchen. “What time is it? Should I run to Walmart and pick up a baby gate or something?”
I shake my head. “Nah, then he’ll just hit it with his knees and fall face first down the stairs.”
“Good point.” He props his hands on his hips like a construction site foreman assessing his workers’ progress. “So, what should we do with him?”
Hudson rolls to his side, resting his face on his bicep. He’s still snuggling the metal canister, but his eyes have drifted closed.
“Let him sleep,” I say with a shrug. “If falling didn’t wake him, we won’t be able to do it without freaking him out.”
