31. Hunter
Chapter thirty-one
Hunter
Tonight is Starlight Valley’s Christmas market. I have a surprise for Ellie that I wasn’t sure she’d even be able to see since I knew there was a chance we might be in the hospital or taking care of a newborn. But since Ellie’s still with child, I’ll be able to show off our surprise.
“I don’t want to go anywhere,” Ellie moans from the couch, where she’s been since we got back from visiting Asher.
Uh-oh.
“You feeling okay?”
“Obviously not,” she huffs. “My insides are permanently flattened by an ever-fattening baby and I’m fairly certain that I don’t have a bladder anymore. The pee just comes right through me, with no place to stop.”
I would laugh at her tirade—but I made that mistake earlier in the week, and I won’t make it again. Instead, I nod sympathetically and go to rub her feet. A month ago, Ellie would’ve been embarrassed by her remarks. But now? All dignity has gone, swept away by almost a full week overdue.
Ellie groans as I press my thumbs into the base of her foot. “I always thought the Christmas market was your favorite holiday event in Starlight Valley,” I tell her.
She grunts but doesn’t say anything.
“It’s chilly out but not too cold—you won’t feel hot for once.”
She grunts again.
Making progress, I think.
“Think about the lights and the Christmas music. All the little vendors with their trinkets. You could get something for Sweetpea’s nursery.”
She cracks an eye open at this.
“You’ll get to see whatever ole Miss Martha brought this year.”
The other eye cracks open. You never know what Martha’s gonna bring.
“I’ve heard that Milky Way Café is serving a decaf version of their holiday drink.”
At this, Ellie hefts herself to sitting—a modern-day miracle. “Alright, that’s it,” she says. “We can go for an hour, but if I get tired, I expect you to carry me.”
“Should I bring Sweetpea’s stroller and just cart you around like that?”
She glares at me as she stands up and waddles toward the bathroom.
I can’t help but smile, because even though she’s in a mood, every day it feels like Ellie is closer and closer to being truly mine.
String lights crisscross the open space at Ridgeview Park where vendors set up tables to sell their trinkets and baked goods. Live music plays on a stage at one end of the park. We walk through the tables, Ellie’s hand tucked in my arm, moving at a leisurely pace.
In true Ellie fashion, she stops at each table and oohs and ahhs over the various offerings—intricately decorated sugar cookies, customized ornaments, knit hats, wood-burned decorations.
We haven’t made it past a third of the tables, and already I’m heavy laden with various things for Sweetpea’s nursery.
When Ellie buys a baby rattle sugar cookie “for Sweetpea,” I’m assuming she means it’s for her and the baby is just vicariously experiencing the sugar rush.
I silently hand over my credit card for the criminally overpriced cookie because sometimes you have to know which battles to fight.
And there are zero battles to fight with a woman who’s swiftly approaching a week overdue.
I get a little misty-eyed when Ellie orders a wood-burned “Our First Christmas” ornament with our names etched into the bottom like they’ve always belonged together—Hunter & Ellie.
I have Martha to thank when I have to practically tear Ellie away from a gathering of puppies. “We’re about to have a baby, Ells. We can’t have a puppy, too.”
“Are you sure?” she looks up at me, eyes brimming with unshed tears over the tiny golden doodle puppies. She lifts one up to my face, its little tongue licking my nose.
My certainty falters, but only slightly.
“What about next Christmas?” I say, because I can’t possibly say an outright “no.” Not with those literal puppy eyes gazing at me.
Ellie squeals, as if I just gifted her one of the puppies. After having a baby, it will be interesting to see if she still wants a puppy.
And if she still wants me.
My mind trips over this thought. I try to brush it away, but it’s like cat hair on a black shirt.
It’s stuck there. What will Ellie want once Sweetpea is here?
Will everything that’s grown between us still be enough when the crisis is over?
Or will she realize she never wanted me—just the safety I offered while her world was falling apart?
Finally, we reach our destination. Handmade children’s clothes stretch across the table. A banner reads “Ellie’s Sew Sweet.” Rosie and Cleo sit behind the table, talking with customers.
“Hunter, what’s this?” Ellie asks, her voice quivering.
“You worked so hard on these pieces, but I know you haven’t had a chance to sell any of them.
And with the baby coming I just thought …
” I trail off, looking into Ellie’s eyes, and shrug.
Because I don’t know what to say. I want to make her happy.
I want her creations to be out in the world, well-loved, just like she is.
“Thank you,” she whispers, taking my hand and squeezing it before letting it drop. “This is amazing.” She approaches the table, and Rosie claps her hands.
“This is Ellie right here,” Rosie says, presenting her to the two other women at the table. “She made all of these.”
I take a step back, smiling as the women gush over Ellie’s creations.
Like the angel she is, Ellie’s smile could light up the whole park.
I pull out my phone and snap a picture, to remember this moment.
It’s not a particularly good photo, it’s too dark for that, but the excitement on Ellie’s face is too good not to capture.
I’m unsure how our lives will continue, especially after the baby’s born. But I do know one thing—I love Ellie. And I’ll do anything to see her smile.
So when I catch sight of Dylan, prowling three tables down, I tense. I do a quick glance around the area and determine that our best way of getting out of here is to round this table and head toward the stage. If we go behind it, it’ll give us cover until we’re almost at the parking lot.
“You’ll have to excuse us, ladies,” I say as I gently pull Ellie away from the others.
As if she can sense my tension, Ellie follows my lead. “Is everything okay?”
“I think it’s time to get you out of here.”
“Hunter?” It pains me to hear a hint of fear in Ellie’s voice.
I press us closer to the stage, where we all but run into my parents, Wyatt, and Georgia. Wyatt sees us first and when he goes to point us out to the rest of the group, I shake my head, not wanting to draw attention to us. He seems to get the message, but my mom does not.
“Hunter! Ellie! Yoo-hoo, over here!” she yells, the sound carrying over the entire market.
My eyes cut to the left—where Dylan has been in my periphery. His eyes meet mine and he smirks before stalking over to us.
I make a split-second decision—where would Ellie be safest?—and head toward my family. It’s true that there’s safety in numbers. He won’t physically hurt her here.
My family crowds around us, mostly oblivious to the tension coiling within me. Wyatt quirks an eyebrow at me, and I shift my head in Dylan’s direction. I can tell the moment that my brother catches sight of Ellie’s ex—his brows furrow and his teeth clench.
I’m glad I’m not the only one who hates that guy.
Just as Dylan approaches the group, I wrap an arm around Ellie and whisper in her ear, “I’ve got you.”
And yet, even with that reassurance, when Ellie looks up and sees her ex, fear pulses across her face. I tighten my hold on Ellie.
“Dylan.” Wyatt’s voice makes it evident he’s not welcome here.
“Relax, relax,” Dylan says, putting on a charming smile that makes me think of the Cheshire Cat. “I just came to say hi to my baby.”
He has the audacity to reach out a hand toward Ellie’s baby bump. I snag his wrist before he can get close, keeping my other arm tight around Ellie.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” I say through clenched teeth. “Unless you want to involve the cops,” reminding him of the restraining order Ellie has against him.
Dylan pulls back his hand and I release him, only so I can put Ellie behind me. My dad and Wyatt instinctively close in on either side so that Ellie is behind a wall of Dawson men. Mom steps closer to Ellie.
“I think you’ve forgotten while you’ve been playing house with another man,” Dylan says, leaning over so that it’s clear he’s addressing Ellie. “—that is my baby.”
I take a step forward and feel a wave of satisfaction that Dylan has to look up at me. Dylan’s not small, he’s gym-strong, but not Marine-strong. Just because he can probably bench press 250, he’s not combat trained and he clearly does not realize how much he does not want to throw down with me.
“That is my wife.”
I expect him to back up, or at least look cowed, but all he does is smirk at me. “That may be so, but don’t you forget, no matter how long it’s been, that child will always be mine. And your wife”—he says it like it’s a bad word—“will always be my leftovers.”
Rage flashes like a flashbang grenade went off in me and my hand is in a fist, my arm up. He’ll pay for what he said. Wyatt grabs me on my right, restraining me before I can make contact with this weasel of a man. My dad’s on my left, holding me back as Dylan laughs.
“Merry Christmas, folks,” he says with a wave before he turns on his heel and walks off. I lunge forward, wanting nothing more than to pummel him into the ground for what he said.