Chapter Four
Hunter Black
Lana walks beside me, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, chin tucked down into the collar as though she wants to disappear.
“Am I making you nervous?”
She shakes her head and glances up toward me. “No, not at all. Why would you think that?”
“You’re tucking into your shell like a turtle in a thunderstorm.”
She huffs out a tight laugh. “Just cold.”
I don’t press her, but I make note of it, cataloging the strain in her voice, the curve of her shoulders, the way she catches her breath before she speaks.
That’s what writers do. We hoard moments, we steal, we listen closely and watch as the world unravels around us, then we make up stories about it.
We exaggerate the truth and bring life to otherwise innocuous events.
Some think the concept is romantic, ethereal in some dreamy sort of way.
It’s not. It’s work.
How else would I know the cold doesn’t just kiss her cheeks, it carves them, leaving behind streaks of red like she’s been marked by winter?
That her boots don’t crunch through the snow, they dodge every uneven patch like the ground might betray her.
That her breath doesn’t fog in the air, it stutters out in fractured clouds like something inside of her is breaking in slow motion.
These aren’t things you learn by accident. You have to watch closely, quietly, long enough for the truth to show itself in the smallest movements, the ones people don’t know they’re making.
I view it as fieldwork. The same way a scientist would study a tiger, or a Michelin star chef would eat every macron in France, or a carpenter would run his hand over the grain before cutting.
Lana is my living draft.
“So, this is it… Main Street, Rugged Mountain.” She nods toward the small downtown district with streetlamps lighting the dusky path, evergreen wreaths hanging over each one. “It’s not much, but it’s home. This time of year it’s extra special, though.”
I don’t respond. I just listen, allowing her the space to feel the moment most authentically, though my silence seems to catch her off guard.
“Yeah,” she swallows hard and points toward the front window of the bakery where a snowman stands center stage holding a cronut, “Rugged Mountain is sort of famous for these window displays at Christmas time. It’s a whole thing.
We have a window display contest, and the entire town comes down to vote.
” She clears her throat. “Well, most everyone does. Last year, Rugged Mountain Ink won. You should check that place out if you have time. The talent there is incredible. They’ve won all kind of awards. ”
“I have an appointment at the end of the week. Told the guy to draw whatever he wanted.”
Her eyes widen. “That’s wild. Aren’t you scared he’ll do something crazy, like a demon with snakes coming out of its eyes or something?”
“Sometimes the best things are the ones you don’t see coming.”
She looks at me for a beat too long, like she’s trying to decide whether I mean the tattoo or something else entirely.
Maybe I do. Today has thrown a load of curveballs that I wasn’t expecting, though most of them circle back to the curvy woman tucked into her puffy jacket next to me.
“You’re the most interesting man I’ve ever met.” Her gaze meets mine with a grin before she diverts it back to the sidewalk again. I love how shy she is, how nervous. “I mean, the way you write is so… real. It feels like I’m living life with your characters.”
I’m flattered but I’ve always considered what I do as some sort of party trick. “I doubt you’d say that if you knew the truth.”
She tilts her head slightly. “What’s the truth?”
“The truth?” I sigh, brows lifted as I exhale. “The truth is I’m good at pretending.”
“You have to be to write so much, right? I mean, that’s your job. To pretend.”
“It is,” I nod, breath fogging in the cool evening air, “but it’s lonely pretending all the time. I write about love and spell out these grand happily-ever-afters, but I can’t remember the last time I felt anything real.”
Her shoulder brushes mine as we walk. “Do you want to feel something real?”
“Some days I think I do, but I know who I am. I don’t do relationships well.
I get busy with work and I lose myself in the big picture, then something I thought would work ends up on fire.
” My stomach twists as my reality lies naked on the sidewalk for her to interpret.
I’m not usually this open with people. It’s uncomfortable.
“I get it.” Her voice is soft as shoppers pass by with big, red bags.
“I read all your books and fantasize about falling in love, but I’ll meet a guy, I’ll find a thousand things wrong with him, and I’ll break it off before anything gets too serious.
Don’t get me wrong, some of these guys really do suck, but some of them weren’t that bad either.
I think I start telling myself it’s safer to leave first.”
I clear my throat as we near the restaurant I chose for dinner then stare toward her, heart tugging something I can’t explain. “I hear that when love is right, your body knows. It can’t be denied because there’s this visceral reaction.”
A lump passes down her throat as she nods. “Is this where we’re eating? I love this place. I come every year on my birthday. The owner’s son just started making moonshine up in the mountains somewhere. Everyone is talking about it.”
“I made a reservation for us between signings earlier today.” I open the door, the scent of homemade bread and Italian seasoning spilling warmth out into the street like a hug. “If you’d rather something else tonight, I can grab my guy and—”
“Your guy?” Her brows knit together as the warm air deepens the red on her cheeks.
“The actor,” I say, holding the door halfway open. “We talked about this back at the bookshop. I said I’d be observing you on a date.”
She blinks and her mouth drops open as though she’s shocked. “Yeah, but I thought you meant you’d be observing us. You and me.”
I pause, realizing the gap between what I said and what she heard. “I’m sorry for the confusion. The goal is to observe you with another man. I need to see your reactions, and his, while watching and taking notes on how things unfold without being in the middle.”
“But how do you absorb the feelings you need without being in the middle? I heard you talk about all the muses you’ve had at the bookstore earlier. Do you do this with a lot of women?”
I pause, the question hanging heavier than she probably meant it to.
I don’t know what to say. She’s standing close enough that I can smell the faint citrus of her shampoo and see the way the cold has turned her lips to a shade of bruised petals.
Her cheeks are still blotched from the wind, her eyes bright with curiosity, and I feel that pull again.
The one I’ve been trying to ignore since the moment I saw her.
“I…” How do I tell her that this is the one and only time I’ve ever hired an actor to step in?
How do I tell her that I typically handle the moments with a muse myself?
Coffee shops, gallery openings, train stations.
I watch, listen, and take notes. They’d say something clever or tragic, and I’d write it down, knowing I’d never see them again.
That was the rule. No risk and no fallout because those women didn’t move the needle.
Lana does.
Lana spikes it.
Lana is color and texture and contradiction.
That’s dangerous, especially given her age. She’s probably twenty years younger than me. Too young for me to be thinking about sexually. Too young for me to find attraction to.
“I observe,” I finally say, leaving out the minor details of previous arrangements. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I can cancel the actor. We can do this in an interview format.”
She tilts her head to the side as though something has shifted inside of her. Something wild and heated. “No.” Her lips curl into something unreadable. “I’m going to give you something to write about.”
And just like that, she’s inside, her hips swaying, coat slipping off her shoulders like she’s shedding something heavier than fabric. She doesn’t look back, but she knows I’m watching. Watching as she plays the part, and she’s owning it.
The tight fitted dress I’m fairly certain she wore for me is now striding toward the actor.
The man who stands and looks way more fucking interested than I hired him to look.
He offers her his hand, and she takes it.
Their fingers touch… and linger. She leans in just enough for her hair to brush his shoulder, and I feel it. A sharp, stupid twist in my gut.
Jealousy.
It’s ridiculous, manufactured. I built this moment. I cast the guy, I set the stage, and now I’m the one sitting in the dark, watching her light up for someone else all because I’m afraid of a stupid fucking feeling.
He pulls out her chair, and they lean into gentle conversation.
About what? I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying.
I should’ve made the actor wear a wire. I should’ve sat myself closer to their table.
I should’ve assumed six thirty would be a busy time to eat.
The restaurant is packed. Between the silverware clanking and the low jazz, I’m not hearing many actual words.
Instead, I’m tortured by the low intimate, lethal sound of her laugh.
I should be writing. I should be cataloging the way her fingers trail along the stem of her wine glass and how her lips part just slightly when she listens, but I can’t tear my eyes away.
She’s radiant under the low light. Skin glowing, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved in a way that’s almost indecent.
What the hell was I thinking allowing this? She was infatuated with me. I could tell the moment we met. I should’ve taken her right then and there like any man with a pulse would have.
She leans forward and her dress shifts, revealing the barest hint of thigh and my chest tightens.
She’s performing, proving a point. To him, to me, to the story. At least I pray that’s what this is.
If it’s real, I’ll have to destroy the man who so innocently took a job thinking it was for the betterment of art.
Stupid, na?ve idiot.
Her hand grazes his knee under the table, and I feel it like a slap. She’s touching him, she’s letting him touch her, and I’m the one who orchestrated it.
I shift in my seat, suddenly aware of how tight my collar feels and how warm the room has become.
She glances toward me, just once, and it’s devastating.
That look. That smirk. That flicker of knowing.
She knows I’m watching… and she likes it.
My sweet little plot twist, teasing me with that man like she enjoys watching me break.
Fuck!
My cock thumps hard against my zipper, and though the waitress has been to the table twice to ask for my order, I motion her away.
I can’t look away, can’t breathe right. The pain is sharp, erotic, and constant. A slow bleed of want and punishment.
Lana laughs again then shifts in her seat so her knee brushes his.
Her fingers toy with the edge of her napkin.
White, innocent linen. It’s obscene the things her fingertips are doing with it.
A moment later she takes that motion and moves it to his hand, but I feel it.
Not on my skin, but somewhere deep, somewhere primal.
The heat in my chest has far surpassed jealousy. It’s darker now, hungry and possessive.
I’m not thinking straight. If I wait another minute, she could slip out of my story and into his.
I can’t sit any longer. I’m up before I think. The chair scrapes, heads turn, but I don’t care.
She sees me coming, and her smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens.
I reach her, grip her wrist, and lean close. “You’ve made your point,” I growl low. “Now let me make mine.”