Chapter 5 #2
I touch the ring gently with my thumb, trying to keep the awe off my face. I'll never receive another ring like this, not in ten lifetimes. This is utterly unique, a piece of art as much as jewelry. Damn him for making this harder than it needs to be.
Hunter is a bad idea wrapped in a perfect moment. That's all this is. A moment. He’s not asking me to fall for him. He’s asking me to get out of trouble. Anyway, I refuse to be that stupid with a guy again, especially not this guy.
I’ve definitely learned my lesson where attractive, virile hockey players are concerned.
Hunter doesn't say anything about the ring choice. Neither do I. I wonder if he picked the ring out or if someone with taste did. Probably some nameless, faceless young woman who works at the jeweler’s shop.
We just stand there for a beat, both of us staring at my hand like we're not sure what just happened.
“So?” Hunter arches a brow. “I’ve never proposed to anyone before, but I think you have to say something.”
I narrow my eyes. “You didn’t ask me anything. You just shoved the box into my hand.”
“I didn’t shove it.” He rolls his eyes. “Will this work for your engagement ring?”
I gaze at the ring again. It sparkles on my finger. I admit, “This will work, I guess.”
“All right.” Hunter nods, his expression relaxing a hair. “I went with the ring that I could imagine you wearing. I’m glad you don’t hate it.”
My eyebrows rise. So he did pick it out. Interesting.
“I don’t hate it,” I affirm. I check my watch. “But I think we should get going. We have a lot of stuff to do. Including getting my car.”
He flaps his hand. “Don’t worry about your car. Give me the keys and I’ll have it moved to the parking deck under the Sinclair.”
“Have it moved? What if–” I start.
He cuts me off. “Come on, Ace. You can’t give me shit about everything. Pick your battles.”
I hate to say it, but he’s kind of right. I don’t have time to run any additional errands today. Not if I plan to get things unpacked at my temporary residence. I want as little interruption to my schedule as possible, so that’s my ambitious plan.
“Fine. I’ll get the keys,” I say. Walking out into the living room, I realize that the movers have finished taking my boxes and now the apartment looks oddly empty.
We leave, stopping for an early afternoon coffee and a bagel with schmear. I get a quad-shot Americano with a hint of oatmilk and an everything bagel with a sun-dried tomato cream cheese. Hunter looks a little disgusted by my food choices, which warms me up inside.
Hunter can go fuck himself.
We arrive at the Sinclair, parking in the lot below the building.
We take the elevator to the tenth floor, which has a total of four apartments.
Hunter’s is the one closest to the door on the right.
Then he opens the door for me, pushing me inside when I dawdle to check out the finished concrete hallway.
“I’m going, I’m going,” I mutter under my breath. “God, you’re so bossy.”
“You like it.” Hunter smirks. “Now get inside.”
I head in and instantly, I’m struck by what I see.
Clean lines, glass walls, and a view that punches you in the chest. It has a sweeping wraparound deck that looks out over the Belltown waterfront.
The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, all sharp edges and reflected sky, with the kind of sunset glow that makes real estate agents salivate.
It’s obviously a luxury apartment, but it has that funny habit of trait completely without warmth.
Three bedrooms, three bathrooms, everything expensive and impersonal.
Designed by someone with taste, clearly not Hunter, and that person had insight into the man who lives there.
The furniture is minimal and modern, all steel, stone, and leather.
Not a throw pillow in sight. The kitchen’s pristine, barely used, with an espresso machine he doesn’t know how to work and a fridge that’s eighty percent protein shakes and bottled water, twenty percent prepared high-protein meals from a service.
There’s no art on the walls. No photos. Nothing personal except maybe a pair of scuffed skates tossed by the front door and a dented hockey bag parked by the mudroom bench.
“You live here?” I burst into a fit of laughter when I step into the living room and open up the door that leads onto the terrace. “It looks like a billionaire’s Airbnb, not a home.”
Hunter sends me a glare. “You’re sounding awfully judgy for someone whose old apartment doesn’t have a working elevator, but does have a green carpet the exact color of baby puke.”
“Hey!” My mouth falls open. “That place is economical. All those things were there before we even got there.”
“No shit.” He shrugs. “I’m just pointing out that you probably shouldn’t be feeling too picky. This place is incredibly expensive.”
“I never said otherwise.”
He glares at me. “Welcome home, future wife.”
My cheeks color. “Is my bedroom down this way?”
He nods, turning to look down the hallway. “Mine is the one at the end. Yours is the first room on the right. There’s one bedroom on the other side of the hall that’s my home gym.”
Trailing down the hall, I open the door to my room.
It’s been set up as a guest room, as bland as can be.
A large, beige bed. A beige rug under my feet.
Famous hockey players’ photos on two of the walls.
A large window that looks out on another apartment building.
I open the walk-in closet to find a surprising amount of space in here, too.
Stacked against the walls are my boxes, stacked two or three high. The room will do just fine, but if this were actually my space, I would make some very different design choices. I sip my latte and have a bite of my bagel as I plan my unpacking.
I start putting things where I judge they should go. First a new purple silk comforter and pearly silk sheets on the bed. Throw pillows, a soft plush gray rug in the ensuite bathroom.
My desk gets placed precisely in front of the living room window where the light is best for working.
My flamingo lamp, a vintage find from last year that cost me a week's worth of tips, stands proud beside my desk.
My bar cart, inherited from my grandmother and restored with love and several YouTube tutorials, gleams in the corner of the living room like a promise of future coping mechanisms.
I’m standing on my tiptoes trying to reach the top shelf in one of the hallway cabinets when I feel him behind me.
Close. Too close.
“Let me get it,” he says, voice low and much too near my ear.
I flinch as his arm reaches past me, the warmth of his chest brushing my back.
He’s not even touching me, not really, but I feel the heat of him everywhere.
His hand wraps around the box I was struggling with.
His fingers are long, steady, casually powerful.
I have literally the worst thought imaginable.
I wonder what those hands would feel like on my hips.
I step away fast. Too fast. The box tips slightly. I lose my balance on the balls of my feet. I stumble backward and crash into him.
Hunter catches me without hesitation. One arm around my waist, the other gripping my wrist. His body is solid behind mine. Hard muscle. Bare forearms. He smells like soap and skin and something faintly woodsy, and I want to die.
My breath comes out sharp. His hand doesn’t move.
Neither does mine.
We stay like that for a second too long. Maybe two.
Then he lets go.
“You good?” he says, already stepping back like he didn’t just short-circuit every nerve ending in my body.
“Fine,” I lie, because the truth is not an option.
I smooth my shirt, grab the box from where it landed and bolt for the bedroom like I’m not thinking about the size of his hands or the way his breath hit the back of my neck.
God, I hate him.
I really, really hate him.
Lastly, I unpack my clothes and shoes into the closet.
Because I moved so recently, I knew just how to pack and unpack with a precise economy of movement.
Dresses, skirts, pants, and tops are already on their hangers.
Shoes are packed in the order of which they should be lined up.
I’m done with my closet in under twenty minutes.
I take a breath, trying to ground myself in the familiar ritual of organizing my space. Creating order from chaos has always been my way of maintaining control when everything else feels uncertain. It almost works.
The movers were efficient and careful with my belongings, which is more than I can say for Hunter, who's now wandering around the condo like he's conducting some kind of inspection.
He touches things without asking, opens cabinets that don't belong to him, and generally makes his presence known in ways that set my teeth on edge.
It's surreal being here. Rehearsing a proposal I never got, setting up house with a man I barely tolerate, faking a love story I never asked to be part of.
The longer I stand next to him, the more the lines blur between performance and punishment.
I'm not here to fall in love. I'm here to protect a man who's never protected me, and every time I'll have to smile for the cameras, it's going to feel like selling a piece of myself I can't afford to lose.
That's when Hunter opens a kitchen cabinet and starts laughing. Actually laughing, like something is genuinely hilarious.
"Did you actually label the spice bins?"
I don't look up from carrying my coffee maker into the kitchen, a French press that's one of my most prized possessions. "Touch anything and I'll stab you with the label maker."
He almost smiles. For a second, he looks less like the intimidating enforcer and more like a regular guy who finds my organizational habits amusing rather than annoying. "You're terrifying."
"Good. I like when I’m in charge."