“I see entrapment,” he said finally, jarring her out of her reverie. He stroked the bird’s wing gently with one finger. “It wants to fly, but it’s not sure how. It’s been anchored to the ground against its will, almost—and yet, the ground is all it knows. The world is its cage, but the sky beckons, unattainable.”

Annika stared at him. Hudson rubbed the back of his neck. “Too bizarre?” he asked, laughing as if her answer didn’t matter, but she could sense the vulnerability behind the question.

“No, I just … you sounded like a poet just then.”

“Is it surprising that I might be poetic?” His expression was full-on cocky now, his eyes glittering.

Annika folded her arms and leaned back against the wall next to the nook, putting a little distance between them. She needed to remember who she was talking to here. “Um, yeah. I don’t remember any poetry in the Forbes article that came out last month.”

Hudson stepped a bit closer. Annika’s traitorous heart thumped in response. “That’s because Forbes doesn’t exactly inspire poetry.” His eyes held hers.

“And … what inspires poetry in you?” Annika managed to ask.

Hudson put one hand on the wall behind Annika’s head, his face mere inches from hers. She knew she should move, but she couldn’t will her legs to listen, like a doe paralyzed by a lion. Her gaze was riveted to his, and her heart pounded out a rhythm against her rib cage.

“Lately, it’s been just one subject,” he murmured, his eyes drifting briefly to her mouth. Annika had a flash of memory: her in Hudson’s bedroom, his teeth nipping gently at her lips, teasing her.

She struggled to blink it away, her knees going weak. “Oh, yeah?” she managed, her voice breathy. “What subject is that? Ancient history?”

Hudson ran a fingertip from her temple to her cheekbone to her chin, as if her skin was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and Annika was afraid, actually afraid, that she might pass out from hyperventilating. He leaned forward so their mouths were basically sharing the same air, their lips poised to touch but still unbearably apart. “I think you know,” he whispered. He was so close that all she could see, all that existed in the universe, were his green eyes.

Do not kiss him, her brain telegraphed, the letters neon-red and flashing a panicked beat. This is Hudson Craft. Anathema to your soul, as I recall.

But … a small corner of her heart whispered back. He’s not all bad. She tilted her head forward, just a millimeter, until her lips brushed his and both brain and heart fell silent. All that remained was her body, and every nerve ending, every fiber inside her was glowing, a filament in an incandescent bulb. She wanted to kiss him; she needed to kiss him.