Chapter 29
29
One phone call ruins his day.
One sweet, nervous smile fixes it.
I should’ve known that the universe would only grant me one, perfect day before slapping me back down again.
When I asked if we could talk about things later, I meant the next day. Maybe even later that night, if my bravery survived that long. I did not, by any means, think an entire conversation-less week would pass by—a Hunter-less week, for the most part.
Turns out, that fateful, transformative storm did a little more than trap us in an abandoned building for an afternoon. It wreaked a little havoc too; knocked down some trees and fences, spooked a few fragile horses, and left a hell of a lot of work to do on the ranch. Tiring, time-consuming work that takes all day, and leaves me with nothing but sporadic stolen moments, nothing more than fleeting touches and lingering glances.
I might be losing it a little. A lot, if I’m being honest.
I’m such a jittery, desperate mess that when the front door swings open, I almost break my damn neck twisting to see who it is.
“Hey, sweetheart.” Oscar Jackson saunters into the kitchen, disappointing me for reasons that have nothing to do with the head he stoops to kiss. Hands landing on his girlfriend’s shoulders, he eyes her current task warily. “You’re cooking?”
Luna pauses peeling potatoes to fix him with a glare. “Yes.”
Jackson’s amused gaze flits to me. “Under strict supervision, right?”
His quip ends in a grunt as an elbow meets his thigh—not quite the body part Luna was targeting, I suspect. “Be nice or you’re not getting fed.”
I don’t flush and look away because Jackson whispers something that turns Luna’s cheeks pink—I flush and look away because I remember another man doing the same to me.
I already ate.
I can’t believe I let that happen. Encouraged it. Begged for it. A brief possession by a very horny demon with zero inhibitions about semi-public sexual acts is the only explanation. I am so not a public person. Like, at all. A heated kiss in the general vicinity of other people is enough to stress me out—Jackson tried to make out with me in the cinema once and I freaked out so bad, I bit his tongue.
Yet there I was, getting eaten out a stone’s throw away from a house full of people without a care in the world. With aggressive enthusiasm.
And here I am now. Mentally back there again. Thinking about it. Blushing about it. Fiddling with the dress I definitely didn’t wear on purpose and clenching beard-burned thighs that vividly remember being wrapped about a broad waist, and trying not to wonder when it’s going to happen again. If it’s going to happen again. If the damage to the ranch has been wildly exaggerated, and Hunter is actually just avoiding me.
That thought is always a particularly loud one. So loud, it drowns out the creak of the front door opening again, the heavy footfalls approaching me, the first quiet murmur of my name.
It’s not until a chest bumps my shoulder, a hand settles low on my back, a pair of soft lips lightly brush my temple, that my attention jolts from the bell peppers I’m meticulously slicing to the man suddenly at my side. Another large hand engulfs mine, the one gripping a knife, and prevents me from doing something clumsily on-brand like accidentally chopping my finger off. “Careful, honey.”
Blowing out a flustered breath, I set the knife down and turn towards Hunter, inadvertently ending up a hell of a lot closer than I intended. My neck screams in protest with how far back I have to crank it to meet his amused gaze. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
One second, I’m wondering when the hell he started smiling so much. The next, I’m lamenting the loss of upturned lips—kicking myself for being the cause of it. Because when Hunter stoops to kiss me, my silly, self-conscious tendencies kick in, and my first instinct is to jerk away.
I didn’t realize that the… thing between us was going to be public knowledge. I mean, I knew people would know because people around here know everything—people have already started calling Hunter The Panty Thief , though I swore up and down they weren’t mine—but I didn’t know they’d know know. I didn’t know PDA was in play. I just figured we’d be, I don’t know, a little surreptitious or something. Not sneaky, but private.
Clearly, I was wrong.
“Please.” I cringe at Luna’s way-too-pleased tone, cringing even harder when I get a glimpse of her smug face. “Don’t stop on our account.”
Mortifying me further, Jackson adds, “Pretend we’re not here.”
“We’ll turn around if you want.”
“Fuck off.” The harsh words are only a playful reprimand, grumbled while Hunter swiftly rearranges us so he’s blocking me from view, the counter digging into my back as big, dirt-stained hands brace the granite either side of me. The admonishment I get, on the other hand, is a little more steely. “Embarrassed to kiss me in front of your friends?”
I gulp. “No.”
Hunter hesitates, fingers curling around the counter so tightly, I genuinely wonder if he could break a chunk off. Voice barely above a whisper, he asks, “Don’t want Jackson to see?”
“ No .” I grab his wrists and squeeze. “Of course not.”
“Then gimme a fuckin’ kiss, honey,” the big guy demands, accent thick and tone leaving no room for arguments. “Been fuckin’ dyin’ all day.”
What’s a girl to do but freaking swoon ?
It’s a good thing I’m practically crushed between Hunter and the counter because otherwise, I’m sure I would collapse when he tries again and successfully captures my lips with his. There’s a teeny, tiny, fleeting moment of uneasiness, of overthinking our meager audience, but it’s quick to dissipate. Quick to be overwhelmed by a warm, familiar rush as Hunter kisses me like there’s no one else in the room.
He’s clearly not shy, not pulling any punches, not caring that this should be a moderately awkward situation at the very least. But he doesn’t give a crap, and neither do I. At least, for a little while, I don’t. Until he palms my ass with a fervor that makes me gasp, and the sound snaps me back to reality.
An unimpressed groan rumbles in Hunter’s chest as I jerk away from him, the reprimanding pat of his wandering hands reinforcing his disapproval. Ignoring his protests, I nervously peek around him only to find out we’re alone.
Hot breath tickles my cheek as Hunter huffs. A second later, sharp teeth nip my earlobe. “Sure you’re not embarrassed of me?”
I roll my eyes and shove at his chest, but he doesn’t go anywhere, doesn’t stop feeling me up, and a harder swat of his palm on my ass makes me squeal. “What’s up with you today?”
“Nothing.” Defying the laws of physics, he drags me even closer. “Just missed you this week.”
That killing me thing—I get it now. Now that I’m on the receiving end of the killing, I get it. And I get it a little more when his lips wander, lavishing my neck with attention, honing in on the sensitive spot just under my fluttering pulse. My shaky knees return with a vengeance, threatening to buckle, and I hold onto Hunter for dear life as his tongue, teeth, and lips work in perfect harmony to drive me to the brink of madness.
And somehow, for some inexplicable reason, through the fog clouding my brain, I still manage to conjure up the most inopportune question. “What’re we doing?”
“Right now?” I feel his smirk against my skin. “I have some ideas.”
“No.” God, why can’t I catch my breath? “I mean, like, us . I don’t know what the…” My nose wrinkles as I search for the right words— any words would be helpful. “I don’t know what the rules are.”
With a sigh, or maybe a laugh, Hunter pulls away. “The rules —” I scowl at his entirely too amused mouth. “—are we do whatever you’re comfortable with, Caroline. Whatever you want. Set your boundaries and I’ll respect them.”
“What about your boundaries?”
That smirk is pure evil. “Don’t have a whole lot, honey.”
“Except a relationship.”
I don’t mean to say it. Not out loud, at least. It just comes out, an accusation that isn’t meant to be one, and I regret it immediately.
Hunter’s expression remains soft, only the furrow of his brow giving him away as his hand finds its favorite spot near the crown of my head, as his forehead gently nudges mine. “I'm tryin’,” he murmurs before I can get an apology out. “Givin’ what I can.”
“I know.” I clutch at his t-shirt, twisting the fabric near the neckline. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear. It just came out.”
“S’okay.” Stooping once more, he kisses me gently, briefly. “You got anywhere to be tonight?”
I shake my head.
“Wanna come over?”
“To your place?” I may or may not squeak a little.
“Uh-huh. We can talk some more.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Order food.” The curve of my jaw. “Watch a movie.” The slope of my cheekbone. “Bring whatever shit you need to stay over.”
To stay—
There’s no time to argue. With another ass smack that very much contradicts one last sweet kiss, Hunter leaves, barking some kind of warning at the couple lurking on the porch acting like they weren’t spying on our entire interaction.
To stay over , he said. At his place. All night. In his bed. With him.
Oh.
This is bad. This is really, really bad. The more I think about it, the more I stare at Hunter’s kitchen, the worse it gets.
I was just trying to do something nice. I figured that, instead of takeout, I’d pick up some groceries. Make us a real dinner. Sneak in before he finished work, courtesy of the spare key hidden under the flower pot on the porch, and surprise him. Because that’s a nice, casual thing to do, right?
Wrong.
So very wrong.
It looks like a date. It’s actually giving me a headache, how much this looks like a date. It’s not like I lit candles or brought wine or made a rose petal trail to the bed. There are no quiet, seductive slow-jams setting the mood.
But a home-cooked meal warming in the oven? The brand of beer he likes chilling in the fridge? And me, breaking into his house, dressed in a calf-length pretty pink dress with a criss-crossed open back—a damn date dress—looking like a wife welcoming her husband home from a long day’s work?
Oh, and scratch what I said about the rose petals. Because flowers, I did get. A bouquet and a brand new vase on his kitchen table. His set kitchen table, made up with plates and cutlery and napkins and a pitcher of freaking lemonade.
Turns out, there isn’t a casual bone in my body.
By the time I hear the tell-tale creak of the porch steps, it’s a miracle I have any fingernails left. When the front door opens, I freeze mid-panicked pace, braced like I’m about to get hit by a freaking car as Hunter strolls inside.
Thunders inside, I should say.
He doesn’t even see me at first, too busy scowling at the ground. It’s only when he slams the door and I jump, stumbling back a step and squeaking a high-pitched ‘crap’ when I catch my elbow on the edge of the counter, that he realizes my presence.
Anger swiftly fades to surprise, that mouth opening to break my heart just a little. “What’re you doing here?”
A valid question, considering I broke in and everything, but I still cringe—a reaction I attempt to hide with a smile. An easy, breezy, casual smile. “I made dinner.”
Hunter looks at the oven, his brows two dark slashes, and I have the sudden urge to shrivel up and die. “I overstepped, right?”
He says nothing. He just keeps frowning, and I guess that’s my answer—I guess I need to figure out how to hurtle through the door with Hunter blocking my exit route. I could throw myself out the window to escape this suffocating silence, and I think if I had to suffer a second longer, I would. Except suddenly, it’s broken.
A drawn-out, utterly exhausted sigh echoes around the kitchen and makes something in my chest throb. Two tired strides carry Hunter towards me. One tiny shuffle gets him as close as he can get. Another slight movement wraps me tightly in his arms, smushes me against his chest, lifts me a few inches off the ground as he buries his face in my hair.
“Thanks, honey.” He sounds drained. Like he mustered up every last bit of strength just to get those two words out. And two more zap the nerves right out of me. “Needed it.”
I melt into his embrace. Feeling awkward just hanging there with my feet dangling, I tentatively wrap my legs around his waist, a cheek-burningly familiar position, and he’s quick to prop me on the counter, not pausing his fierce hug for a single second.
I don’t complain; I’m more than happy like this. As the minutes tick by, my hands wander. Run through his hair and across broad shoulders, rub gently at a pair of rigid shoulders, journey as far down his back as I can reach and up again with long, soothing strokes—the kind I like, and that Hunter seems to like too because he burrows deeper into the crook of my neck, another one of those deep sighs warming my skin.
It feels like forever passes before some of the tension holding him taut leaches from his body, enough that I almost balk under the heavy weight of him slumping against me. “Long day,” he quietly drawls, the explanation simple yet loaded.
When he doesn’t offer anything more, I try not to take it personally. I choose not to push. “You want some food?”
“Do I have to let you go to eat?”
I choke a laugh over the hard lump in my throat. “Uh-huh.”
“Then no.”
Jesus. Jee-sus . He’s got to let go right now before I really, truly lose it and do something embarrassing like cry. Or fall in love with him. Or both.
Sneaking my hands in between our flush bodies, I gently push at his chest. “C’mon. Let’s eat.”
Hunter’s gruff groan does weird things to my internal organs. Raising his head slowly, as though it weighs a ton, he knocks his temple against mine before reluctantly backing up enough so I can hop off the counter. But when I try to move, hands on my shoulders stop me. Warm, wandering hands that trail the length of my torso the same way his eyes do, glinting with appreciation that makes my stomach twist. “Really like this dress, honey.”
Fisting my hands to stop their nervous twitching, I hope I don’t sound completely insecure. “Yeah?”
Hunter hums, toying with the neatly knotted bow at the center of my back. “Like a present,” he murmurs, a comment that makes me shiver, that I don’t let myself linger on because there’s only so much a girl can handle.
“And…” I gesture at the utterly domestic picture laid out in his home. “You’re okay with this?”
“Never gonna hear me complain about a beautiful woman making me dinner.” He tugs on the bow, and I feel the fabric give a little. “Next time, I’ll cook.”
Next time, next time, next time, my silly brain chants so loudly, I start looking for some anti-bright sides. Some reality checks. Anything to stop the warning chime of impending, inevitable heartbreak ringing in my ears. “It’s not too relationship-y?”
The gentle petting stops. “You’re pretty caught up on that word.”
“I just don’t wanna make you uncomfortable. Make you think I’m expecting things.”
Which I’m not. I’m not letting myself. I’m not ruining this, whatever it is, by getting greedy.
“I know you don’t want a relationship,” I continue, like a car crash that never ends. “But I don’t know what you do want, y’know?”
“That’s easy. You.”
Internally, I sigh. What the hell? How am I supposed to be pragmatic, to stay some level of detached, when he says things like that? “I’m serious, Hunter.”
“So am I.”
“Really?”
The sweetest, warmest smile I’ve ever seen lights up his face. Palming my cheeks, Hunter stoops to kiss me, and that’s just as sweet. “Really.”