Chapter 18 #2
The interviewer leans in, mic ready. “So, Juliet, tell us what it’s like to be engaged to Hunter Huxley. Especially with such a history between the three of you.”
My smile feels frozen in place as I hear myself say, “It’s been… incredible. Hunter is amazing. I’m so lucky. We’re, uh… going to get married this winter, like Hunter said. It’s going to be a private ceremony, of course.”
I nod, tilt my hand so the emerald catches the light, and keep talking while my heart pounds. Patrick’s eyes are on me, unreadable. Hunter’s palm settles low at my back, warm and steady, as if to remind me whose fiancée I’m supposed to be. The camera eats it up.
God, I hope my parents don’t watch this clip. I like that Hunter is sticking up for me, but I hate that I have no control over how this is going down.
“I think we’re both ready to be an old married couple already,” he says. He hugs me tightly against his body. “Isn’t that right, baby?”
The smile I give Hunter is partially a what the fuck are you talking about look.
He’s unpredictable, but not in the way I expected. Instead of completely losing it, he’s holding it together and backing me up. That takes me by surprise. I didn’t think he could control himself at all when pushed.
Patrick, not to be outdone, pulls out a pen. ”Where do I donate? I want to pledge ten thousand dollars," he announces to the cameras.
My lips twitch. Patrick has a nasty habit of promising things on camera and never actually following through with them. He’s done it with breast cancer research, orphans from Rwanda, and 9/11 survivors.
Hunter immediately outdoes him. “Make it twenty-five thousand from me.”
“You know what? I think it would be great if you both went to the bank and paid the pledge in cash. Today. Before any of this airs on TV.”
Hunter arches a brow. “Gladly.”
Patrick hesitates too long. “That’s… not a problem…”
Meaning that he didn’t actually plan on fulfilling his pledge after all.
I turn to the camera, smiling widely. “I think that would make for some compelling TV. Right? Have both of them hold up their checks to the camera after they endorse them?”
“Absolutely!” the sportscaster agrees. “We’d love to put that on the news.”
Patrick excuses himself to “move some money around”, his face nothing short of sulky. I grip Hunter’s arm as the news crew moves on to film more of the adoption fair.
“That was a mess,” I sigh. “Patrick turned up here out of left field. How could he even know that I was going to be here?”
Ivy waves, smiling sheepishly. “That might have been my doing. When I drew up a press release about the adoption fair last week, I may have added you to the list of VIPs we would have here without actually talking to you about it. So sorry about that. I didn’t think about the fact that you are probably trying to stay out of sight. ”
“It’s fine.” I give her a reassuring glance. “Honestly, none of us could have predicted that Patrick would show up here. He’s supposed to be in Texas!”
“He’s a fucking creep,” mutters Hunter. “He’d better keep away from you or I’m going to make his skull into a decorative ashtray.”
My eyes widen. “Huxley!”
“What?” He looks at me, feigning innocence. “It’ll be an improvement for everyone.”
“That’s enough,” I tell Hunter firmly. “Behave yourself or you’re getting kicked out of here.”
To my amazement, he does. He dotes on me, kissing the top of my head, wrapping his arm around me, being good. But no one can miss his malevolent glares in Patrick’s direction.
“Could you quit looking in Patrick’s direction?” I ask sweetly.
“The only reason I’m not dragging him outside and beating him into the concrete is because you told me not to.” Hunter smirks. “But you can’t ask me not to glare at the guy. That’s unfair.”
Biting my lip, I can’t hide my smile. I smooth my hands out over his chest and tip my head up, peering at him. “You are being very well-behaved, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” he agrees. His gray eyes dance as he catches my hands. “I expect a reward later for remaining calm.”
My pulse kicks like a horse. “I’ll remember that,” I whisper.
Hunter picks up a black lab puppy and carries it over to a cluster of fans, who are as excited to pet the puppy as they are to see Seattle Havoc’s #47.
Oh no. Something is shifting. The person who I thought I agreed to be in a fake relationship with was the Chainsaw, this larger-than-life asshole without feelings that was utterly one-dimensional. But that’s actually not who Hunter Huxley is at all.
It turns out, not very far beneath his rugged exterior, there’s this whole other person who smiles, who is kind to puppies, who listens when I ask him not to get in a fight with my ex.
Is this real? Hunter Huxley just controlled his temper for my sake?
What does that mean for how I feel about him? Is this the beginning of a crush I feel building in my chest? I’m unsteady, like the ground beneath my feet has turned to sand, which is now crumbling beneath my feet.
Hunter and I take a few more Instagram-worthy pictures with some adoptable puppies, then escape as quickly as possible. Patrick glares at us as we leave; there’s something undeniably fun about walking out of the building, my arm tucked in Hunter’s, my eyes glued to his handsome face.
I think even if Hunter wasn’t just here to protect me from my ex basically stalking me, I might like to look at him and squeeze his hard biceps.
“Coffee?” he asks as we walk to his truck.
“Please. I need caffeine and sugar and possibly alcohol.”
He stops at my favorite coffee place, the one I mentioned once in passing. “Quad cappuccino, extra shot, oat milk, no foam,” he tells the barista.
I stare at him. “You know my order?”
“I pay attention.”
“Since when?”
“Since always. You just never noticed.”
Never indeed. My face grows warm, but he just hands me my drink without saying another word.
We drive home in comfortable silence, and once we’re back in the condo, we collapse on the couch. I leave my heels on but make sure the bottoms aren’t touching the couch as I curl up against the oversized cushions.
Hunter heads into his room. I scroll through my notifications on my phone, stopping at the email I’ve been waiting for.
It’s directly from Jimbo, the Seattle Havoc’s team owner, about how well I managed the potential PR crisis.
I didn’t really do much. The others helped.
But upper management is praising me anyway.
For a moment, I actually believe I might be good enough at this job.
I keep reading, sucking in a breath when I read the next part. Jimbo asks me to step up and fill some of the void left by Julien, who he apparently fired.
I fire off an email agreeing without a moment’s hesitation, my career ambitions overriding everything else.
My pulse pounds. On top of Hunter being a gentleman after rescuing me today, this is the deep red cherry perched on my sundae.
Hunter comes out of his room, looking nearly indecent as he throws himself on the couch beside me.
The first thing I notice is the pair of dark gray Seattle Havoc-branded sweatpants that sit low on his hips.
Next is his tight white tee, the sleeves pushed up to his shoulders to show off his powerfully-muscled arms. His tattoos jump out at me, a chaotic collection of tightly packed line drawings of tents, compass roses, and pine trees.
I guess I never noticed his tattoos in particular before now.
But it’s the look on his face that gets me. Hair brushed back, high cheekbones, expressive full lips… and the naughtiest sparkle in his stormy gray eyes.
“Are you going to change?” he asks.
“Me?” I look down at my short white wrap dress, shrugging. “I don’t see why I would.”
Hunter kicks his long legs out, reclining, and puts his hands behind his head. Like I need any more reason to ogle him, jeez.
“You can’t be comfortable like that. At least take your shoes off.”
I look at my heels, checking again that the bottoms aren’t on the couch.
“My heels aren’t getting the couch dirty!”
He rolls his eyes. “Did I say that? Heaven forbid Juliette Monroe should get a couch dirty.”
“What’s your problem then?”
He jerks his chin at my heels. “You’re at home. Relax. Take off your shoes, let your hair down. You can even wear something comfortable. There are no cameras here. You don’t have to perform, Juliet.”
“I’m not!”
“You are. It’s okay to let down your guard a little. I promise I won’t tell.”
“Hm.” I toe off my heels, dropping them to the floor. “Happy?”
Hunter shrugs. “It’s a start.”
I study him for a moment, uncertain how to behave. A manual about living with your fake fiancé would go a long way right now.
“Thanks for showing up earlier,” I say, my voice soft. “And for not getting into a brawl with Patrick.”
“Your ex is a piece of shit,” Hunter says bluntly.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I don’t get how you ever found him attractive.”
I snort. “Have you seen him? He’s objectively handsome.”
“He’s got nothing on me.”
The cockiness in his voice makes me smile. “You’re right. You’re definitely hotter.”
Something shifts in his expression. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I take a sip of my perfect cappuccino. “Plus, you know how to order me coffee. Patrick never remembered what I liked in five years.”
“Oh yeah? Just your coffee order, huh? What else didn’t he remember?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implication. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “He never made me come. Not once in five years. He said I took too long, whatever that means. I guess I’m broken.”
Hunter immediately gets upset, leaning into my personal space. “What do you mean he never made you come?”
“Exactly what I said. I must be defective or something.”
“Bullshit.” His voice is a growl. “You’re not broken. He’s just a selfish asshole who didn’t deserve you.”
I shrug, aiming for casual even as my cheeks burn. “Or maybe it was me. Maybe I’m just… hard to figure out. Some kind of unsolvable puzzle. Not worth the effort.” I try to tack on a quick laugh, like it’s all a joke, but it lands flat in the air between us.
“Don’t,” he says fiercely. “Don’t you dare talk about yourself like that. You’re amazing. Patrick is lower than dirt.”
Then Hunter kisses me. His mouth moves against mine with a kind of patience I didn’t know he possessed. Each brush of his lips is deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. His thumb keeps stroking over my cheekbone, slow and steady, as if grounding me at the moment.
I can feel the faint scrape of stubble against my skin, the heat of his palm, the subtle shift of his breath as he tilts my head to deepen the kiss.
The taste of him is warm and familiar. Coffee, yes, but also something darker, something that clings to the edges of my senses and makes me lean closer without meaning to.
His scent wraps around me. Firewood, vanilla, and a trace of his natural masculine smell.
It’s dizzying in the best and worst ways.
Every nerve in my body feels awake, pulling me into him when I know I should pull back.
I’m half convinced he can feel my heartbeat against his chest. The steady weight of his hand on my face says he’s not in any rush to stop.
His other hand settles at my hip, fingers flexing like he’s fighting the urge to drag me closer.
I can sense the restraint in him, the way he’s holding himself back when every line of his body tells me he wants more.
When he finally murmurs, “Firecracker,” it isn’t teasing. It’s reverent, almost careful, like he’s speaking to a part of me no one else has bothered to see. I know if I let him keep going, he’ll burn through every wall I’ve built.
He should move away, make a joke, ruin the moment like he usually does. But for once, he doesn’t. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gray-blue eyes intense.
“Promise me something,” he says.
“What?”
“If you ever doubt yourself again, if you ever think you’re broken or not enough, you come to me. Let me show you just how un-broken you are. Over and over again, until you believe it.”
My breath catches. “Hunter...”
But he’s already pulling away, standing up abruptly. “I should go to my room.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Yeah, I do.”
He leaves me gaping at his retreating back. A few seconds later, I hear his bedroom door slam. Then the music blasts.
I sit there for a moment, touching my lips, still feeling the heat of his kiss. Is he… touching himself? Is it because of our kiss?
I sneak up to his door and listen. I can hear his moans over the music as he jerks off, my name falling from his lips like a prayer.
I did that to him? Jesus. That knowledge turns my entire body into a pillar of flame.
My maybe crush just turned definite.
I tiptoe back to my room, my heart racing and my skin burning. Everything has changed between us.
And I’m not sure there’s any going back.
Four more months of this arrangement suddenly feel like both forever and not nearly long enough.