The Enemy Contract (Westbrook #2)

6. Hunter

Chapter 6

Hunter

M other’s voice rang out like a shot before we’d even reached the shooting range, reverberating through the estate.

“Hunter, honestly,” she said as we neared the range, “what were you thinking? If you’re going to give Charleston a show, at least make it a good one.”

I followed her into the vintage range in complete silence, waiting for the words that I knew were about to fly at me like speeding bullets.

She was furious about the leaked video clip of me and Avery arguing at the garden party the previous night.

“A Westbrook should never lose control in public,” she scolded, adjusting her gloves with the precision of a surgeon and grabbing her favorite rifle. “We use the media to our advantage, not to harm our image.”

The weight of my mother’s disappointment pressed harder on me than I cared to admit.

Our setting, of course, was Betsy through and through. It was a vintage shooting gallery complete with mahogany shooting halls. There were also gilded targets shaped as pigeons, which I was quite sure my mother had designed herself.

It had been years since she’d dragged me into this part of her estate, so I knew she meant business.

She walked in front of me, her tailored hunting suit shifting as she moved. The elegant pearls around her neck bounced as if even they shared her indignation and disappointment in my performance the previous night.

“Sit!” she commanded, gesturing to a bench with all the flair of a Bond villain. “I will talk, you will listen. And you will not interrupt me.”

Resigned, I sat on the bench as instructed and watched as the first clay pigeon launched into the air. She raised her rifle and fired with precision—the sound of the shot echoed throughout the estate.

The target exploded into shards as I winced.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked without look at me.

“A rifle?”

“This…” she said, lifting it and shooting again, “is an instrument of precision, focus, and power—three things you clearly lack.”

The sound of the cracking shot rang out before I could respond to her comment.

I had obviously been dragged here to be lectured.

The clay pigeon completely disintegrated in midair, and I heard my mother let out a loud sigh as she lowered her gun.

“Honestly, Hunter,” she said, turning and looking at me with sadness in her eyes, “I didn’t raise you to provide Charleston with tacky reality television. That little video of you two arguing? It’s an embarrassment.”

Suddenly, the brief flash of sadness disappeared as a look of fury crossed her face. “And that boy, Avery…” she said, clenching her teeth. “Calling me dramatic?”

She lifted the rifle again and shot once more, the sound almost deafening me.

“Me?!” she called out with indignation. “Who could accuse me of being dramatic?”

I rubbed my ears, trying to get the ringing to stop.

“He’s trash,” she added, turning to look at me again.

For some reason, a rush of burning anger washed over me at the sound of her badmouthing Avery.

I didn’t like it one bit.

As I opened my mouth to defend him, she cut me off.

“Honestly,” she scoffed. “The nerve of someone of Avery’s status to speak ill of me. He thinks his five percent stake in Harborstone makes him the Rockefeller of Charleston.”

Now I was really starting to get pissed.

But the one thing I couldn’t figure out was why.

Avery constantly annoyed me.

At least that’s what I’d thought last night.

But the more time that passed, the more time I realized I simply hated Mother’s games. It had become increasingly difficult to put a price tag on her use of me as a puppet.

Mother rolled her eyes. “I’m thrilled that you were able to entertain Avery, but maybe next time… don’t let him embarrass our family like a common street performer.”

Was this my mother’s idea of showing restraint?

“Mother!” I exclaimed, leaning forward. “It’s not as if I invited the photographer to record us. We simply had a disagreement, it happens.”

She reloaded her gun with an unnecessary flourish, causing me to roll my eyes.

“Not to Westbrooks!” she shouted. “We don’t argue in public, dear. We command. We lead, we inspire awe. We terrify when absolutely necessary… but never do we argue like common people bickering in line at a grocery store checkout.”

I looked up at her, shaking my head. “I don’t think anyone took it seriously?—”

“Oh!” she interrupted. “Everyone took is seriously. For example, Linda Whitaker.”

I was sick and tired of hearing that woman’s name.

It was shocking to me that my mother cared what Linda thought. I could understand my mother wanting to maintain a certain image for the sake of selling the gallery.

But since when did Betsy Westbrook give a damn what a Whitaker thought?

“Linda called me last night to tell me she’d never ‘seen a Westbrook show so little restraint,’” Mother added, steadying her rifle. “And she actually used the word ‘restraint,’ Hunter. Linda Whitaker, a woman who once threw a crystal decanter at a bartender because she said her martini had too much ice.”

She fired yet again and I watched the clay pigeon disintegrate before my eyes.

She turned and looked at me. “Hunter, do you know what Marcus Lockwood sees when he watches that video online?”

I sighed. “A minor hiccup?”

“He sees a damn circus,” she snapped at me. “A full-on three-ring disaster of epic proportions.”

I tried to keep my frustration in check. “So, what’s the plan, Mother?”

A flame flickered in her eyes as she glared at me. “The plan, darling, is for you and Avery to turn this little sideshow into the most exciting romance Charleston has ever seen. And tonight’s gala will be the perfect stage.”

I waited for her to provide further instructions because I knew they were coming.

“I want meaningful, stolen glances,” she commanded, “hand holding under shimmering chandeliers, and enough charm to make Linda choke on her favorite caviar.”

“Mother,” I said, trying to get her to relax, “you’re talking about Avery Ashford like he’s?—”

She interrupted me, smirking. “Oh, I know exactly who Avery is. He’s broke, he’s rude, and he’s your ticket out of the disaster caused by this book. At least he has good bone structure, darling. If you hadn’t played your cards right, you could’ve been stuck with Linda Whitaker’s niece who thinks bedazzling is an acceptable form of art, dear.”

I winced at her comments. “You’re impossible, Mother. I’m starting to think maybe that book wasn’t wrong about you.”

She glanced over her shoulder, grinning at me. “Yet here I am, Hunter… saving your hide. Maybe the author should write a sequel.”

My discomfort was palpable.

For the evening’s gala, Canvas and Cocktails: An Event for Art Restoration , the ballroom at Westbrook Meadows had been transformed into a sea of shimmering chandeliers and quiet whispers. The hum of conversation from Charleston’s elite buzzed through the air.

As Avery and I walked through the room, every head turned to gawk at us. I could hear the sharpening of their metaphorical knives as they awaited their opportunity to consume us.

I turned and looked at Avery as I muttered, “They’re staring.”

“Of course they are,” he said through a tight smile, his lips barely moving as we moved through the crowd. “You’re Charleston’s favorite bachelor, and I’m the lowly Ashford who’s dragging you down.”

I nodded at a familiar face in the crowd, someone I recognized from the numerous parties Mother forced me to attend.

“You’re not dragging me down,” I said, forcing a smile to remain on my face so no one would notice.

We had a role to play, and I intended to do it well. The stakes were higher than I cared to admit.

Life-changing money , I thought. Freedom and flexibility.

“Should we give them something to talk about?” Avery asked, nudging me.

His slid his palm into mine. His hand was warm and steady—and somehow comforting.

My pulse quickened.

Whispers grew as we moved. It was impossible to miss the not-so-subtle nods and glances, the way people leaned into each other to dissect our every move, watching for any hint or sign.

Linda Whitaker stood near the bar, her pearls glistening under the light as she furiously whispered something to her husband, looking as if she’d swallowed a lemon.

I squeezed Avery’s hand for effect and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “I think Linda is about to explode.”

Avery nodded. “Good, now let’s turn up the heat a bit.”

He stopped walking and turned to face me, catching me by surprise. He pulled me close as if he were about to tell me a secret, but instead tilted his head and locked his gaze with mine.

He cleared his throat and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “You look absolutely incredible tonight, Hunter.”

His words startled me and for a brief moment I forgot how to breathe. I swallowed hard, gazing into his piercing eyes, his convincing smile.

I realized too late that my face was probably expressing more than I’d intended, so I tried to cover it up.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound casual, but my voice was a little hoarse, “you don’t look too bad yourself.”

He laughed effortlessly as if he’d just heard the most hilarious joke in the world. I could feel everyone’s attention zeroing in on us. The room seemed to shift, and conversations suddenly grew louder.

His hand was still holding mine as he asked, “Shall we dance?”

At first, I hesitated, not knowing if I could pull it off. But then I saw Betsy standing across the room, glaring at me with a look that could level a mountain.

She mouthed one word at me: charm .

“I’d love to,” I said, guiding Avery to the dancefloor.

Music swelled as we stepped to the center of the room. I pulled Avery close to me, my hand resting on the small of his back. I had to admit, we fit together with surprising ease, moving together fluidly as if it was something we did every day.

Avery murmured quietly, loud enough that only I could hear. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“You’ll have to thank Betsy for that,” I replied with a dry tone. “While other kids were riding their bikes, she made sure I had ballroom lessons.”

Avery smirked. “I would imagine she wouldn’t settle for anything less.”

As we moved across the floor, I caught snippets of conversations that gave me insight into the crowd’s reactions. Words like unexpected, intriguing, and dashing were playing on people’s lips. I felt a rush of satisfaction knowing that we just might pull this off.

Judging by the wide eyes and dropped jaws from every partygoer around us, I would say that we’d effectively accomplished our goal of giving Betsy the show she’d demanded.

I could only hope that it would prove to be enough to keep her from plotting something even more theatrical. Knowing her, she was probably perched nearby with a drink in her hand, examining our performance like a critic watching actors.

Avery leaned in a whispered, “Do you think Betsy is satisfied? I could perhaps twirl like a ballerina if it might help.”

I smiled, trying to appear unphased and unbothered despite everything coursing through my veins. “Let’s not give her any ideas, Avery.”

He pulled back just a little, but not too far. His lips turned into a half-smirk that felt more genuine than anything we’d shared so far. The warmth in his expression caught me off guard as he seemed to soften, just for a moment.

I’d expected professionalism, biting commentary, and maybe even disdain from Avery. But what I was seeing now was something else entirely.

Something playful.

Something real.

Something I was starting to like.

The next morning, I found myself at my mother’s estate.

The kitchen at Westbrook Meadows was rarely quiet and today was no exception. Mother stood next to a whistling teakettle, impatiently waiting for it to boil.

She finally shrugged her shoulders and walked over to sit at the long, marble island.

I cleared my throat to announce my presence. I’d been summoned yet again, hopefully this time to better reviews.

“Hunter!” she said, gesturing for me to sit. “My favorite son.”

“Logan’s not here?” I asked with a scoff.

She waved her hand as if to dismiss my comment. “Logan doesn’t have the spark you do, darling. Nor does he have all of Charleston eating out of the palm of his hand.”

She held up her tablet so I could see what was on the screen, an article in the society section of the local newspaper detailing last night’s event.

And, more importantly for Mother, my interactions with Avery.

I’d used the time during my drive to the estate trying to push thoughts of Avery out of my mind. The air had shifted between us the previous night, and I wondered if Avery noticed too.

But things were getting too serious for any messy complications.

I needed to be careful.

“I must say,” she said, shoving the tablet closer to my eyes so I’d read, “last night was a smashing success. A triumph! Even Linda Whitaker was green with envy.”

At the center of the article was a photo of me and Avery, smiling like we were on a poster for a rom-com movie.

The article was titled ‘Hunter and Avery: Charleston’s Hottest Couple.’

“Great, Mother. Glad I could contribute to Charleston’s gossip mill in a meaningful way.”

She glared at me as she spoke, her voice sharp and intense. “This is much more than idle gossip, Hunter. I received a phone call this morning from none other than the assistant to Mr. Marcus Lockwood. He’s thrilled! Even better, he’s delighted. He said, and I’m quoting directly, ‘The Westbrook-Ashford alliance is positively charming.’”

“Alliance?” I asked, nearly choking on my coffee. “You make it sound as if we’re signing a treaty.”

She tapped her finger on the marble and stared blankly at me. “In a way, dear, you are. Mr. Lockwood is showing interest again. And do you know what that means for us?”

I raised an eyebrow. “That I can get back to my life soon?”

She chuckled but there was no warmth in it. “No, darling, it means that you and Avery are going to keep this act up until the ink is dry on the sale of Harborstone—and speaking of acts, there’s another event you’ll need to attend tonight.”

“Mother,” I groaned, “must we go to yet another event? We just went to one last night and you have no idea how draining it is to smile endlessly for hours.”

She plucked a biscuit from a large plate on the island. “Oh, stop whining. This is a very exclusive dinner at the Haverty Club. Small crowd, intimate setting, not to mention that Mr. Lockwood will be there.”

I suddenly felt a hint of anxiety at the idea of meeting this elusive billionaire investor that my mother was so interested in courting.

She scrapped a portion of butter onto her biscuit. “It’s the perfect opportunity for you and Avery to seal the deal with everyone around.”

“The Haverty Club, great,” I said, rolling my eyes. “There’s nothing as romantic as overpriced salads and men in loafers giving each other stock advice.”

Mother put down her biscuit without even taking a bite. “Darling, the Haverty Club is where reputations are made—or crushed into pieces. If the two of you can’t wow Marcus tonight, I’ll be forced to resort to more… drastic measures.”

I gulped, wary of what would come next. “Like what?”

She tapped her chin theatrically as if pondering my question. “Oh, I don’t know. How about a duet? You and Avery could sing something absolutely heartwarming at the next event. Linda Whitaker suggested ‘Endless Love.’ Three times.”

“You’re joking!” I said, nearly spilling my coffee. “You can’t be serious.”

“Am I joking?” she teased, her eyes alive with a flicker of danger. “Linda already arranged for a pianist, just in case.”

I couldn’t believe her. Mother would stoop to any lengths to get exactly what she wanted.

But admittedly, it was nothing new for me.

The city of Charleston had known of my mother’s ways for decades.

But I’d grown up with her.

“So,” she said with a dramatic sigh, “unless you want to make your debut as Charleston’s answer to Sonny and Cher…”

“Mother!” I exclaimed, making the grave mistake of interrupting her.

She waved a finger at me. “Then I suggest you and your fake boyfriend put on quite a show tonight.”

I sighed as my shoulders slumped, the last shred of dignity leaving my body. “Fine. We’ll go. But if this backfires tonight?—”

“Backfires?” she interrupted, chuckling as if I’d just told a hilarious joke. “Darling, the only thing that’s going to backfire tonight is Linda’s ego when she sees that your romance is ‘real.’ Now please go, and wear something that doesn’t make you look like a divorced hedge fund manager.”

I grabbed a biscuit and turned to leave, shaking my head with resigned fury. To top it all off, her laughter echoed behind me, loud and victorious, as I left the room.

The Haverty Club was every bit as pretentious and ostentatious as I’d remembered. Mahogany walls framed the rooms, crystal chandeliers practically begged to be looked up at, and the guests carried themselves as if they were gifts to humanity.

I adjusted my tailored blazer, wishing I were anywhere else but here.

It was the kind of place where wealth dripped from every wall and everyone’s smiles were fake and plastic.

Suddenly, Avery appeared by my side, his presence making me feel grounded in a way I wasn’t yet ready to admit. He looked both effortlessly sophisticated and maddeningly handsome in his navy suit.

To my surprise, he nudged me playfully. “Try not to look miserable. You’ll scare off the caviar—and the investor.”

I chuckled, suddenly glad that he was there with me.

He leaned over and whispered, “Guess I’d better keep my voice down, huh? Reporters in the midst and all that.”

I shook my head to indicate that he didn’t need to worry. “No reporters allowed at the Haverty Club. But we still need to be mindful of our act.”

As we walked through the crowd, Avery took in our surroundings. It became clear to me that he’d never been here before. Simply being wealthy wasn’t enough for one to receive an invitation to the Haverty Club. I didn’t know if the Ashfords had the kind of connections to get in here.

Not that it was any place special—hell, even I didn’t want to be here.

In fact, I longed to be anywhere else on earth.

In the corner, I noticed Mr. Lockwood surrounded by a group of well-dressed men. They each smiled and nodded at the next as if they were discussing the secret to immortality—or at least how to build a fortune large enough to buy it.

Their laughter was low as if they were sharing conspiracies with each other. It was the kind of laughter that said, We’re already rich, but let’s see just how far we can take it .

If the sale of Harborstone was a success, my mother might even edge her way into their billionaire boys’ club.

Betsy Westbrook with billionaire status?

That’d be less of a milestone and more of a public safety concern—for everyone.

Linda Whitaker was perched near the bar, eyeing us like a hawk watching prey. She was clad in a dress that practically screamed look at me . Her male companion was someone I’d never seen. He didn’t quite look like he’d fit in here—bland, underdressed, and forgettable.

Certainly not Linda’s husband.

She rose from her barstool and walked over to talk to us, her male companion in tow.

“Well, well,” she said, squinting her eyes and speaking with faux warmth. “If it isn’t Charleston’s newest power couple.”

“Linda,” Avery said, leaning in and giving a dazzling performance, “it’s always such a pleasure to see you.”

Avery had more of a stomach for this kind of thing than I did.

I wanted to tell Linda to buzz off and leave us alone.

But I knew my mother would blow a fuse if I did that.

“Tell me,” she said with a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes, giving her an almost dead stare, “how long have you two been smitten?”

Smitten?

Sometimes with Southern hospitality, it could be difficult to tell how sincere someone actually was. But with Linda Whitaker, there was no need to guess.

Avery glanced at me with a hint of worry in his eyes. For a moment, our unspoken panic was palpable—but I recovered quickly.

I reached out and squeezed Avery’s hand. “Long enough to know that this is the real deal.”

Linda’s head tilted as if she was feigning interest. “How very charming. And tell me, where was your first date?”

Avery’s forced smile disappeared momentarily, but he quickly recovered. “It was very, very romantic.”

“Where was it?” Linda pressed, glaring at him.

Attempting to shield Avery, I jumped in. “We went stargazing, it was extraordinary.”

Finally, Linda’s companion, who had been silent, piped up. “Stargazing, how quaint. Tell me, where might one stargaze in the city of Charleston?”

These two are relentless , I thought.

“Anywhere the sky is visible,” Avery quipped with a breezy tone, obviously trying to sound relaxed.

Linda’s eyes narrowed at us, as if she had detected the scent of blood. “Well, that is simply fascinating. Avery, tell me, what’s Hunter’s middle name? Surely, you’d know the middle name of your beloved.”

I could feel Avery’s hand twitching inside of mine. I absolutely hated that Linda was doing this to him. He didn’t deserve to be interrogated.

“Family secret!” I interjected, probably much too loudly for the circumstances. “We have a family tradition of keeping it secret, very charming. I’m sure you understand.”

Linda’s eyes flicked to me. “And Hunter, what are Avery’s parent’s names?”

Silence surrounded us, punctuated only by the sound of clinking silverware and glasses. The silenced stretched even further, Linda’s wicked grin curling at the corners of her mouth as she awaited our answer.

I forced a chuckle. “As much as I’d love to dive into Avery’s family history, I think he’d rather answer that himself.”

Avery flashed a grin so bright it could practically melt ice. “They’re Reggie and Vivian Ashford.”

“Interesting,” Linda said. “Don’t you find that quite interesting, David?”

I turned and looked at her companion. “And who are you?”

I hadn’t meant for it to sound so sharp, forgetting for a moment that I was supposed to be playing a role.

He gave a small smile, lacking any warmth, sending a chill down my spine.

“I’m David Carter, Charleston Post . You two have been absolutely… fascinating tonight.”

My heart began to race, and the air emptied from my lungs.

A reporter.

Of course he was a reporter.

Linda didn’t come to these gatherings for the calming ambiance.

“Well David,” I replied curtly, “I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself. If you’ll excuse us.”

Without waiting for either of them to respond, I turned around and walked toward the exit. Avery trailed behind me, trying his best to catch up.

“Hey!” he said, calling out for me. “Were you about to just leave me with the two of them?”

I pulled out my phone to call for a car. “They’re vultures. This whole thing is one giant charade after another. It’s a disaster waiting to happen, Avery.”

I looked up to see his face tighten, and for a moment, I hoped he would argue and ask me to stay. But instead, he let out an exasperated sigh.

“You’re storming off,” he said. “If all of this falls apart, it’s on you.”

An empty taxi pulled up before I could use the app on my phone to schedule a ride, so I climbed into the back seat and slammed the door shut.

I needed to get away from Linda Whitaker, that reporter, The Haverty Club, and the circus that had suddenly consumed my life.

As the driver pulled away from the club, I turned back to look at Avery’s face, but it was unreadable in the dim streetlight.

I exhaled to attempt to release tension, but my thoughts raced even faster.

This fake romance was no longer just complicated.

It was becoming dangerous.