Chapter 5 #3
He wanders into the living room and lifts one of my mid-century table lamps, examining it like it's some kind of alien artifact. His hands look enormous around the delicate crystal base. "Is this supposed to be art?"
I snatch it from his hands before he can drop it and ruin months of thrift store hunting. "That's vintage. Mid-century modern. If you break it, I will break you."
"Copy that," he says, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender. "Death by lighting fixture. Got it."
“Har har har, so funny. You’re a real comedian.”
The smirk he shoots me is dripping with irony.
The afternoon passes in a series of small territorial disputes. Hunter treats the shared spaces like his personal dumping ground, leaving things wherever he happens to set them down. I follow behind him, rearranging and organizing, creating systems he immediately ignores.
Figures. Typical male bullshit.
Later, in my bedroom, I'm arranging my perfume tray on top of the beige dresser when I hear him lean against the doorframe.
I can feel his presence without looking up.
Bottles lined up by size, glass trays angled just so, everything in its perfect place.
It's a ritual that calms me, this careful arrangement of beautiful things.
"You've got a whole tray just for smells?"
His voice carries a note of genuine curiosity rather than mockery, which surprises me. I ignore him and keep arranging, hoping he'll take the hint and leave me to finish unpacking in peace.
But Hunter has never been good at taking hints. He walks into my room anyway, which violates about three of our freshly laminated house rules. His presence makes the space feel smaller, more intimate than it should.
"What's this one?" He picks up a tiny crystal vial, one of my more expensive purchases.
I hesitate, my mouth puckering, not sure why I'm about to be honest with him. "The scent Patrick hated."
Patrick, my ex-boyfriend of five years. The hockey player who had opinions about everything I wore, everything I bought, everything I did. The one who slowly chipped away at my confidence until I wasn't sure what I liked anymore.
Hunter sets the bottle down carefully, more gently than I expected. "And now you wear it?"
"Out of spite."
He makes a humming sound, unreadable, and starts to walk away. But when he glances back at me from the doorway, there's something in his expression I can't place. Not mockery. Not quite curiosity either.
Something that looks almost like understanding. Like maybe he gets what it means to reclaim pieces of yourself that someone else tried to take away.
Either that or he is just trying to figure out how to move my delicate art deco lamp back into my bedroom when I’m not looking. Probably that.
He moves into the living room, following me, and I hand him a laminated sheet of paper. The house rules, typed up in professional font and protected by plastic for durability.
"You laminated the house rules," he says flatly, holding the paper like it might bite him.
"I did."
He grunts, reading through the list with what I can only describe as resigned acceptance. Then he drops his gym bag directly in front of my carefully positioned bar cart, completely blocking access to my grandmother's crystal decanters.
I don't hesitate. I drag the bag across the hardwood floor, not caring if I scuff the polished oak, and dump it outside his bedroom door with more force than strictly necessary.
"Petty," he mutters, but he doesn't move the bag back.
"Basic hygiene. Learn about it."
We immediately get into our first real fight over the thermostat. I turn it up to a reasonable seventy-five degrees, a temperature that will suit us both. He turns it back down to a subarctic sixty five.
"Seventy-five is not hot," I say, adjusting it again while giving him a frosty glare. "I think better when I'm not freezing."
"I don't want to die of heat exhaustion in my own living room," he fires back without a trace of embarrassment.
“You’re being dramatic.”
"You can put on more clothes. I can’t wear any less. Buy a hoodie."
"I’m not going to wear a coat in my own living space. Get a life."
The back and forth continues for several minutes, each of us adjusting the temperature when the other isn't looking. It's petty and ridiculous, but also strangely familiar.
If he doesn’t wise up though, I’m going to kneecap him. Then he’ll have real problems to worry about instead of whining about being hot.
Later, I open the hallway closet to hang up my coat and find his rank hockey skates shoved on top of my carefully organized coat bins. The smell hits me immediately. Leather and sweat and something that might be athletic tape, all mixed together in a cocktail that makes my eyes water.
"HUNTER!"
He sticks his head out of his room, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth and toothpaste foam at the corners of his lips. "What?"
“I need you to move your hockey crap out of the hall closet. It’s foul. And I want to store my coats there.”
"It's shared space," he argues.
"So is the trash chute," I snap, dragging his gear bag out and dropping it with a loud thud that probably violates our lease agreement. "Guess where this is going if you don’t handle it?"
"You're a terrorist. A five foot tall terrorist in heels."
“Huxleyyyy,” I purr, imitating a valley girl. I put my hands and my hips and give him a saccharine smile. "At least this time your comments won't get printed in the campus paper."
That hits home. His jaw tightens and for a second, something flickers across his face that looks almost like regret.
The reference to college, to the interview that cost me my internship, hangs between us like a weight.
But then it's gone, replaced by that familiar smirk that says he's not going to apologize for anything.
“You agreed to this, Ace. Actually, it was your idea.”
“As if I could ever forget,” I fire back. “And don’t call me Ace.”
“I think it suits you.”
Eyeing him, I cock my head. “Are you telling your brothers about the fake engagement?”
His expression is perplexed for a moment.
“I haven’t really thought about it. I guess I could, but Jett has a big fucking mouth. It’s probably better if I don’t give him a secret to keep.”
“I’m just trying to decide if I should tell my parents about it.”
He shrugs. “That’s up to you. Would your parents care?”
“Mm.” I screw my face up. “They’ll judge me. They hate hockey players, especially after Patrick and I broke up.” Her lips twitch. “Mom thinks you’re all complete idiots for playing a sport with such a high concussion rate.”
“Well, can’t argue with that logic. It sounds like whether you tell them or not, you’re screwed.”
With that, he heads to his room. I stare after him, knowing he’s right. Since I don’t want to follow in my mom’s footsteps, my parents aren’t really supportive of any choice I make. It’s better to have them in the dark than to try and get them on my side by sharing the truth.
I spend most of the day unpacking boxes. By evening, I am more than ready for a shower and a relaxing evening. Maybe I’ll read a nice cowboy romance on my Kindle. I change into silk pajamas that feel like luxury against my skin. Then I stare at the ceiling, trying to process the day.
My body's exhausted from the physical work of moving, but my mind is completely wired.
His presence is too close, just down the hall.
His energy is loud even through a closed door and probably decent soundproofing.
My skin itches with irritation. Or maybe anticipation. I honestly can't tell anymore.
This was supposed to be a professional arrangement. Strategic. Clean. A business transaction that would benefit both of our careers and nothing more. I had it all mapped out in my head. We'd coexist politely, put on a good show for the cameras, and go our separate ways when the contract was up.
But I'm not sleeping. And I'm definitely not calm.
I'm an engaged woman now, technically speaking. Mrs. Hunter Huxley-to-be. The thought is completely overwhelming. It’s like wearing a pair of pants that are several sizes too big and that you keep tripping over.
And I definitely didn't plan on feeling anything when he watched me arrange my perfume bottles like the ritual actually meant something to him.
I mean, I didn’t. Just… being here, in his space, is not as terrible as I would’ve thought.
I’m not sure what I imagined before I stepped in the door, but it wasn’t a space that could be so easily spruced up.
A bar cart, a few vintage lamps. I could probably find some throw pillows for the black leather couch and sleek metal loveseat.
I could almost feel at home here.
I touch the ring on my finger, twisting it slightly.
The emerald catches the candlelight and throws tiny rainbows across the ceiling.
It's beautiful. Perfect, even. The kind of ring that makes a statement about forever and happily ever after and all the things I stopped believing in when Patrick left.
Too bad this is all fake. And for a guy that’s probably my worst fucking enemy.
Tomorrow, we'll go to our first charity event as a couple.
We'll smile for the cameras and hold hands and pretend we're the next great love story of the NHL.
I'll wear something appropriately fiancée-ish.
He'll clean up nice in a suit that probably costs more than my rent.
And we'll convince everyone that the Chainsaw has been tamed by love.
The thing is, Hunter has always been good at getting under my skin. Even in college, when we barely spoke except to argue, he had this way of looking at me like he could see right through whatever mask I was wearing. Like he knew something about me that I didn't want him to know.
And now I'm going to be living with him for five months. Sleeping down the hall from him. Kissing him in front of the cameras. Pretending to be in love with him. Acting like the woman who tamed the beast and lived to tell about it.
Picking up a purple satin pillow, I cover my face and moan my pain into it. This is going to be a tough road, no matter how I’ve managed to make the guest room my own.