Chapter 7 #2
But I regret it the second I step out of the guest bedroom at Hunter’s condo.
It clings to all the places people already love to judge.
Hunter straightens when he sees me, swallowing hard.
But it’s not my chest he’s zeroed in on.
It’s my bare legs. And then his gaze travels up to my mouth, glossy and carefully painted.
I catch the way his eyes drag down my body, then snap back to my lips like he’s trying not to think about them. It shocks me more than it should. Hunter Huxley, looking at me like he wants something he can’t have.
I make sure I wear just a whiff of my favorite perfume and do my eye makeup perfectly. When Hunter sees me, he goes stiff and swallows audibly.
I smile slowly. “Eyes up, Chainsaw. Or you’ll miss the best part.”
He clears his throat. “You look... um… dressed.”
“Wow,” I say, adjusting my clutch. “Remind me to embroider that onto a pillow.”
He scowls, watching me walk past. He is quiet as we ride to the restaurant. I think about the look on his face when I emerged. Surprised? Maybe slightly pleased? It was interesting.
When Hunter pulls up to the valet at the restaurant, I wait for him to come around to open my door.
My heartbeat rises. I don’t know why exactly; I did the hard part last night when I posted our fake engagement for the world to see.
Hunter doesn’t even look at me as he holds my door open, a fact that I don’t miss.
But I paste on a smile and grab his arm.
We probably look ridiculous next to each other. He’s a towering beast and I’m… well, I stopped growing in seventh grade when everyone else was shooting up like a bunch of weeds. I’ve always been petite. We are quite a pair.
“Hunter! Hunter, over here!” I can hear camera shutters as Hunter puts his arm around me and pulls me toward the restaurant door. Just for the cameras, I lean into him and try to show some gratitude that he’s sheltering me from the dogged press. Just for the show.
We make it into the restaurant, where someone whisks us to our table. I’ve asked for the table in the center of the dining room. It’s definitely the spot to be seen. Paparazzi pictures from this restaurant fill the pages of every gossip column.
I picked well, if you ask me.
Clearing my throat, I tug at the hem of my dress, pulling down my neckline a quarter of an inch.
I know what I’m doing; you don’t spend nearly all of your adult life trying to downplay your boobs without knowing just how to make them highly visible.
He gets an eyeful of cleavage and I don’t miss the way his breathing changes.
Ugh, yes. I have breasts. Look your fill, I think. Hunter leans closer and whispers in my ear.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?” I ask innocently.
He growls and his eyes drop to my chest. “That.”
“That’s not very specific,” I say, smoothing my dress. “You’ll have to be clearer.”
His jaw tightens, and his glare intensifies. I lean in, brushing his arm, whispering, “You’re staring so hard I might start charging admission.”
He mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch, but the flush creeping up his neck is reward enough. I hear camera shutters clicking; a few people who recognize Hunter have pulled out their cell phones to snap photos.
I’ve changed my mind. This dinner was actually a fabulous idea.
We sit at the fanciest sushi place in the city, all black marble and ambient lighting. Perfect for photos. I push his buttons throughout dinner, making him pose in increasingly intimate ways. Touching his hand, leaning into his shoulder, angling my ring so it catches the light just right.
Hunter growls warnings in my ear about behaving myself, which makes my stomach flip in ways I absolutely don’t want to examine. I take selfies of the two of us. It’s fun to make Hunter so deeply uncomfortable just by pretending to flirt with him.
At one point, I look at a picture I took and my breath catches. Wow. The way he’s looking at me in the shot... if you didn’t know us, you would think there was something real burning in that stare. His eyes are entrancing, intense in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
I order the most expensive sake on the menu and a dozen oysters. Hunter refuses to try even one, so I eat them all myself, slurping their juices and making a show of it. He seems riveted by my mouth, which reminds me I need to reapply my lipstick.
When some fans come over asking for autographs, he starts to say no, but I step in.
“Of course he’ll sign,” I say sweetly, nudging Hunter. “He loves meeting fans.”
I take pictures with them, chat about the team, and act genuinely friendly. Hunter watches me work his fans with something that might be appreciation. At least he doesn’t have to talk to them, I guess. Honestly, it’s better for the fans that I’m here.
We head home afterward, settling into a silence that isn’t as tense as usual. Thank god for that. I’m exhausted from performing all night, from being on every second we were in public. Still, it was successful. A good outing.
As we enter the Sinclair building, I’m about to tell him so when he gives me a long look.
“You sure you’re not enjoying this a little too much? The lights, the looks, the attention. Kind of fits.”
What? My jaw drops and my hands clench at my sides. The implication that I’m some kind of attention-seeking social climber makes me feel like a burned-out husk. I’m over here having a positive thought about Hunter for maybe the first time… and he has to douse me with cold water.
“You don’t know what it costs me every time my name shows up next to my picture. I’ve spent years fighting to be taken seriously.”
He goes still, his expression unreadable. I press the button for the elevator.
“I already had to survive Patrick,” I add, keeping my tone light. “If I lose my credibility over this, over you, it’s not just embarrassing. It’s career-ending. You probably wouldn’t get that though. I’d expect that kind of sexist thinking usually shows you in a more favorable light.”
I step into the elevator when the doors open, furious.
Even Hunter doesn’t see the real me. He sees what everyone else sees. Just a pretty face looking for an easy ride.
Shit. Now that I think about it, every public move we make could reinforce the wrong narrative about who I am and what I’m capable of.
“Ah, fuck.” Hunter exhales slowly, but he doesn’t look away. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No? Tell me. How did you mean it?”
His brow draws tight, and he looks at me as though working something through. “I was just trying to press your buttons, Ace.”
I lose patience, growling. “Don’t fucking call me that. Seriously, Huxley. You’re on my last nerve tonight.”
Lucky for both of us, the elevator dings and the doors open. I stride out first, my heels clicking with every furious step down the hallway.
I don’t say another word as we walk to our condo. I keep my shoulders square, my chin lifted, my expression locked in place. Every step feels like a battle not to let him see my hurt. That his casual dismissal of my struggles actually hurt.
Once the door shuts behind us, I go straight to my bedroom. I don’t slam the door. Don’t yell. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me lose control.
I wait.
Wait until I’m out of his sight, out of his reach.
Then I crumple onto the edge of my bed and bury my face in my hands.
My body is shaking. My throat burns with unshed tears.
I’m not crying over Hunter, I tell myself. Not really.
It’s in the headlines. The whispers. The old fear that maybe Patrick was right about me. Maybe I am too cold, too ambitious, too much of a control freak to be loved for real. Maybe all I’m good for is playing a part in someone else’s story.
I let myself cry for a few minutes, then I force myself to stop. Wiping my face roughly, I stand up. Fix my hair in the mirror. Reapply my lipstick with hands that only shake a little.
Even when I’m home, I’m performing. Protecting something fragile inside me, something I can’t afford to let anyone see.
I’m Juliet Monroe. I don’t fall apart. Not where anyone can see.
I walk to the kitchen and open a bottle of wine, pour exactly one glass, and leave it untouched on the counter. I stand there barefoot, staring at the clock on the microwave.
One night down. Months to go. And now the universe thinks I’m in love with the one man who knows exactly how to unravel me with a single offhand comment.
Great. This is going really fucking great.
I lean against the kitchen counter and close my eyes. Tomorrow there will be more photos, more comments, more people dissecting every outfit choice and facial expression. More opportunities for Hunter to remind me he sees me the same way everyone else does.
Just another girl chasing the spotlight, willing to do whatever it takes to get ahead.
The worst part is that I think I’m caring what he thinks of me. And that’s a complication I absolutely cannot afford.