22. Hunter #2
We decide to stop by Ground Up first, and when we get there, we’re lucky to have the place to ourselves.
We park along the street. A blast of warm air hits us in the face as I open the door, and we’re instantly surrounded by the heady scent of warm nutmeg.
My mouth waters at the thought of one of Navy’s infamous cinnamon rolls.
“Well, well, well,” Navy teases, her head popping up over the pastry case. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
“You know,” I say, holding the door open and gesturing for Sutton to step in. “Good morning is the typical greeting for customers.”
“Yeah, but then I wouldn’t get to see that surly look on your face,” Navy says.
Sutton steps in front of me, hands held out like she’s stopping a fight. “It’s early. I need more coffee. You two can do whatever this is later.”
I nod my head. Navy eyes me over Sutton’s shoulders.
I can practically see the questions and judgments appearing over Navy’s head like speech bubbles in a cartoon.
I look her dead in the face and raise my eyebrows in a dare.
She glowers at me, looks to Sutton, who’s scanning the pastries, and back to me.
Suddenly, Sutton’s phone rings, breaking the tension between Navy and me.
“I’ll be right back,” Sutton says, stepping back into the damp November morning.
I step up to the counter and into general kneecap-breaking distance. Sutton is animatedly talking on the phone, most likely with her mom.
“She looks happy,” Navy states plainly.
I nod and turn my gaze to Navy. “We both are.”
“And this means—”
“This means,” I say, “that it’s now my life’s mission to see that woman smile like that and laugh like she did in bed this morning every day for the rest of my life. I know you love her, Navy, but so do I. Her heart is safe with me.”
She eyes me warily. “Okay.”
“Just okay?” I groan, trying to contain my eye roll. “Still trying to figure out if I’m a good guy?”
“I know you’re a good guy.” She sighs, fidgeting with the pastry case door. “But there’s a lot between you two that neither of you have dealt with. I love Sutton, and I don’t want her to get hurt. I don’t want you to get hurt either.”
A chill rushes into the café as Sutton swings the door open and steps back inside. She looks from Navy to me and shakes her head. “You two are being weird.” I wrap my arm around Sutton’s waist, pulling her tight to my side.
Navy tracks my every movement. I raise my eyebrows, daring her to say something that could dampen Sutton’s mood.
Navy’s shoulders rise on a deep inhale. “Just making sure this guy knows he won the lottery.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, “I do.”
Sutton’s eyes bounce back and forth between Navy and I.
“Okay, well, if you two are done being . . . whatever . . . I’d like to order sooner than next year.
I need fuel and as much caffeine as I can get before tackling Christmas decor.
” The atmosphere lifts as Sutton smiles that same effervescent smile again.
“Speaking of, why are you working? Shouldn’t you already be at Greer’s? ”
“Shouldn’t we all?” Navy gives a coy grin, and Sutton’s cheeks flame. “James called out,” Navy says, “but I know he’s just hung over. I’m actually kind of bummed to miss out on the fun.” Navy pulls an espresso shot.
“I don’t think fun is the right word,” I say. “Greer runs a tight ship when it comes to holiday decor. I still haven’t recovered from Halloween.”
“I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” Navy says. She slides our coffees and breakfast across the counter.
“Navy,” Sutton says, and takes a sip of coffee. “I guarantee there will be charts and maps and labels. We’ll be knee-deep in tinsel for the next ten hours.”
“I doubt we’ll be home before midnight,” I say, not missing Navy’s eyes widening to my use of home. “Her and Luke’s holiday whosy-whatsy is the weekend after next. We’re on a deadline.”
“Holiday Cheermeister,” Sutton and Navy respond simultaneously.
I shrug. “I don’t care what they call it.”
“From How the Grinch Stole Christmas?” Navy says.
I shake my head. “Never seen it.”
“Good lord, man,” Navy says. “We’ve got to get some culture in your life. Put it on the watchlist for the party,” she says to Sutton.
“Oh, it’s on there. All three versions.” Sutton backs toward the door.
I splutter my coffee. “Three? Why the hell are there three versions of a movie about a green fuzzball stealing Christmas?”
“You’ll see,” they reply in unison once again. I’m beginning to think they’re speaking telepathically to one another.
Not even ten minutes later, Sutton and I pull up to Greer’s house.
The sky is still overcast, but at least the rain’s stopped.
Even if it were a downpour, Luke would’ve shrugged and said “It’s only a little rain,” then kept right on hanging decorations.
Anything to make Greer happy. Not that I can blame the man, when I’d do anything to make my own woman happy.
“Stop fussing with your hair,” I tell Sutton. She’s redone her bun no less than three times since we left Ground Up.
She shakes her hands and tucks them between her thighs. “This weather isn’t helping at all. I feel like such a bum.”
“I don’t know, I kind of like your outfit.” I reach across the seat and poke her side.
She side-eyes me. “I would hope so. You bought it for me.”
There’s a question tucked beneath her words, but I’m not about to give in that easily. I’m sure she’s feeling raw and vulnerable now that things between us have shifted, but I’m not about to let her retreat into old habits.
“Come here,” I murmur, brushing my thumb across her jaw. “You look perfect.”
She blushes but leans in enough that I feel the soft surrender she’s giving me.
“You know,” she whispers, “someday I’d like to hear the story behind the clothes.”
“You can hear it right now.” I press a slow kiss to the apple of her cheek, and the way her breath stutters tells me she wasn’t expecting me to offer the story up so easily. Her eyes never leave mine.