Chapter 18
Renleigh
I could be that person who rushes from the plane, sprinting to a taxi and speeding off, hoping the boy will chase me. And I don’t lie to myself—I thought about it for half the flight.
But he’s on this plane. And I know he shouldn’t be. So the least I can do is hang back and deplane together. And maybe—only maybe—listen to him.
I back into the aisle to let both passengers in front of me clear out, then wait for the hulk of a man next to Hunter to grab his bag and leave.
Hunter’s gaze locks onto mine as soon as muscle man’s body clears a path, and he’s quick to take me up on the opportunity to be within touching distance, it seems.
“Yeah?” His head tilts a smidge as he grabs his bag and walks backward.
“Go on. Don’t make a big deal out of it. It’s a five-minute walk from the gate to the curb. And my sister’s picking me up, so you should talk fast.” Lest I signal Lindsey when she sees you and we both attack.
“Right. Got it.” He takes in a deep breath, still shuffling backward down the aisle of the plane.
“I’m a nice guy,” he begins, and I laugh out so hard I snort and have to cover my face with my palms.
“Come on, Renleigh. You know I am. I’m not out here womanizing, racking up ladies in every city. That’s not me. You have to know that.” His head leans to one side with such sincerity, I’m forced to calm the tickle in my chest so I can hold it together and give him a fair shake.
“Hunter, I know you have a thing for IKEA furniture, and you were the number one draft pick. Those are the things you’ve shared with me. Sorry, but I’m not sure those qualifies as nice-guy characteristics.”
I tuck my bottom lip under my teeth and shrug. That was brutal to say to him, but it’s true. On top of it that, I don’t trust people, especially when it comes to relationships, and it’s a miracle I didn’t choose to sprint off the plane, then change my number . . . and address.
He nods as his gaze drops to the breezeway floor.
He pivots to walk forward, slowing enough that our steps sync up, and I open my mouth to apologize for coming off harsh, but decide against it.
I want him to be a nice guy, but years of experience—of watching ballplayers come and go, of watching my own parents’ toxic relationship—tells me wanting someone to be good and them actually living it are two very different realities.
“You’re right,” he finally says as we step into the jetway and enter the gate lounge.
I meet his gaze for a few steps and wait for the but. He doesn’t refute me, though. He accepts my argument.
There aren’t many people waiting at the gate.
The early evening arrival time isn’t a popular one, so there are plenty of wide-open concourses all the way to baggage claim.
If I wanted to, I could hurry this conversation along and be on my way, spilling my guts to Lindsey as she drives me home.
But something has me stuck when it comes to Hunter, so I slow.
“Go for a ride?” I tilt my head to the moving sidewalk, and his mouth ticks up into a faint smile.
“It’s my favorite. How’d you know?” He steps onto the moving conveyer belt first, turning to face me as I step on behind him.
“So tell me, are you normally a stand-still and ride kind of girl, or do you walk briskly and keep to the left, respecting the rules of the passing lane?” Hunter glances behind me and I follow his gaze, confirming that right now, we’re the only two on this thing.
“I’m pretty sure I can tell what version you are by the way you phrased that,” I laugh out. “And I think we’re of the same vein. People who impede the flow of traffic in the airport are . . . well . . . those are not nice guys, let’s just say.”
Hunter chuckles at my position, and nods.
“Good. One more thing we have in common.” His smirk teases me, and I mimic his expression with a tight-lipped simper of my own.
“Okay, I’ll give you one more check mark on the nice guy list. Now tell me something else.”
I swallow as a vision of Sloane’s face flashes through my mind. That’s what I really want to hear about—how she fits into things and ends up in his hotel room. But I’m willing to give him the trip out of the airport to layer his case with more personal facts.
“Hmm, well. My parents have a strange relationship, too. Not quite like yours. You take the gold in that,” he says, and I sashay a hand across my midriff before taking a bow and accepting the worst top prize ever.
“Why are your parents strange?” I push him to keep sharing.
“Well, they aren’t in the same place a lot.
My dad travels six months out of the year for work, and my mom gets lonely.
I’m pretty sure she struggles with depression, though she’s never come out and talked to me about it.
I should probably ask, but I don’t really know how.
And part of me doesn’t want to know for sure because I feel guilty for leaving her alone, too.
” He draws in a sharp breath and widens his eyes before blowing out.
“Wow, that was a bit of a breakthrough for me.”
My gaze narrows with a touch of skepticism, but I quickly see he’s being genuine.
“I get how your mom feels. I felt that way too, when my mom would take off for months or years at a time. It’s why my dad and I are so close.”
Hunter nods, shifting the weight of his travel bag on his shoulder as he drops his gaze to his feet.
“It’s probably why I’m so close with my mom.
When Dad was gone, it was just us.” He brings his attention back to my face, his smile urged on by something distant.
And maybe precious. “She was there for every practice, every game, every tryout and college visit. And when I went to college, she dropped by unexpectedly sometimes. Oftentimes. Basically, every other weekend,” he laughs out.
I snicker, picturing a woman who looks a lot like him barging into a single college guy’s dorm room. That thought quickly morphs to Sloane.
“You have a habit of women just dropping by unexpectedly, it seems.”
I press my molars together and stretch my lips into a tight smile, not exactly proud of my passive aggressive segue, but not exactly backing off from it, either.
Thankfully, Hunter breaths out a soft laugh through his nose and quickly nods in agreement.
“It seems I do. But I swear, there’s an explanation for Sloan showing up to the hotel today.”
“To your room, you mean,” I correct.
Hunter’s spine straightens and his head jerks back a few inches, as if I hit him with a blast of air. He didn’t know that part. Or he’s a great actor.
“Oh, yes. She was in your room, Hunter. I walked out of the shower in nothing but a towel, and there she was.”
I leave out my commentary on her being drop-dead gorgeous.
Besides, he seems in shock, and I don’t think he’s blinked since I broke the news to him.
Either that or he’s dwelling on the part about me being naked.
We’re approaching the end of the moving sidewalk, so I gesture behind him to pay attention.
I don’t catch him quite in time, however, and he back pedals several feet with his arms swinging to keep from falling and cracking his head on the terrazzo floor.
“Renleigh, I swear to God. I swear on my arm, on my future, on everything that’s important to me, Sloane showing up today was just the culmination of a lot of poor communication on my part.
I did tell her she was welcome to come see me play .
. . anytime. We dated my senior year, briefly, and I may have chickened out when it came to hard and fast closure to the relationship. ”
“You mean you wanted to keep the booty-call line open,” I challenge him.
Hunter winces at first, but his expression morphs into one of resolve, his mouth heavy at the corners and his eyes not able to fully reach mine.
“I probably did, yeah. No . . . I know I did. But that was just stupid plans hatched in the brain of a single guy hyped up about his future, fantasizing about a glitzy lifestyle, and parties, and fast cars, and—”
“And women,” I cut in.
His lips twist and he lifts a shoulder.
“Yeah. I guess so.”
He blinks slowly, bringing his gaze fully to mine, and it’s heavy with guilt. He’s being honest; it’s written all over his face. But also, I don’t think he’d have said everything he just did if he were trying to pull one over on me.
“So, what changed?” I ask.
His eyes dim and his brow lowers, his expression puzzled.
“Huh?”
“Eight months ago, you wanted all those things—the fast cars, the glitz. The booty call. What changed? And when you say you aren’t that man, that you’re a good guy, why should I believe you?”
My body is buzzing suddenly at uttering those words. I’m scared he’s going to tell me nothing’s changed, that he made a mistake—that we were a mistake.
Hunter takes measured steps closer to me, though, and at first, I back up, keeping pace with him. Eventually, I hold my ground, and his hand moves to the side of my face, his thumb stroking my cheek.
“I met you, Renleigh,” he says. “That’s what changed. And you believe me if you want to. What kind of guy would I be if I treated this thing between us like a negotiation?”
Well . . . damn.
I suck in my bottom lip as my eyes flit to his mouth, then back to his gaze.
I lift on my toes and move my hand to his jaw, closing my eyes as my lips press to his.
His body quivers in reaction, the tremor tiny but present, and his breath hitches from my touch.
I’m not sure if it’s surprise at being kissed, or relief at being forgiven.
And I’m not completely sure I have just yet.
But I do know I believe he’s trying to be a good guy. It’s not his fault that I don’t believe it’s possible for people in his line of work. At least, not all the time. But I can let this thing with us play out a little longer. Until the next time something hurts.