Chapter 3
Gracie
“Wait, what happened?” I need to be sure I heard my brother correctly. Maybe he’s talking about a different Hunter Reyes. Any Hunter Reyes, except the one I convinced myself I’ll never run into because my job is in the corporate offices and his is on the soccer pitch.
Apparently, a person will convince herself of anything to make it through another day.
And this day started with me wrenching myself out of bed an hour earlier than necessary so I could stress bake a batch of chocolate-chunk cookies and eat four of them with my coffee.
It’s my first day at work with the Devils.
My stomach is roiling, but at least the house smells good.
“His house caught fire last night.” Kyler flips a pancake higher than necessary, and its uncooked side lands perfectly in the center of the griddle. I want to know how he learned to do that, but first things first.
“How?” Sitting on a barstool pulled up to the granite counter that separates the kitchen from the dining area, I rub at my temples, where a perpetual headache is brewing.
“I mean, wow. That’s terrible.” I shake myself out of the blur that momentarily stole my humanity.
“Was he inside when it happened? Is everything okay?”
Kyler shrugs with his back to me as he loads frozen berries into a blender. I watch him add protein powder and coconut milk, then secure the lid and turn it on. When he’s whipped the mixture into frothy purple submission, he reaches for the cabinet above my head and takes out two glasses.
He has the energy of a jackrabbit and has always been a morning person. Growing up, the scene looked similar, with Kyler already having worked out and showered by seven, and me dragging myself to the kitchen for orange juice to fuel me through the process of getting ready for school.
Only now, Kyler is an adult with a job, and I’m still too bleary to finish buttering my toast.
I stare out the window of the Hollywood Hills bungalow that he bought a few years ago and renovated from top to bottom.
The place is an architectural beauty, all wood beams and floor-to-ceiling glass windows that make it feel like we’re in a tree house.
The view at night is spectacular, facing a canyon on one side and the city on the other, with a panoramic view of twinkling lights and a dark sky.
It’s so quiet here that I find it hard to believe we’re in Los Angeles, home to twelve million people.
“All I know is that he got a call last night, and by the time he got home, the fire was out, but the place is unlivable. Half burned, and the rest is so smoke damaged that it’ll take a while to sort through and see what’s salvageable.”
“That’s horrible. Does he know what caused the fire?
” I don’t mean to sound insensitive, but my science brain seeks answers, data.
It’s almost a defense mechanism to protect me from worrying about emotions because once I start down the road, a surge of empathy makes it hard to process anything else.
Kyler shrugs, his brow creased. “No idea. He video-called me in a panic from his front yard. The house was still smoking, but it mostly looked like a gaunt shadow behind him. He’s on his way over here now.”
“He’s…what? Right now?!”
It’s not like I expect my brother to run every decision he makes by me, especially since he’s being kind and putting me up while I see if my new job has legs, but it’s seven in the morning on a Tuesday, and I’m barely awake enough to process information.
Any information. Let alone the idea that Hunter Reyes is coming over here.
I never mentioned to Kyler that I ran into him at the airport a month ago. All part of my attempt at denying it ever happened. Like maybe if I wipe the episode from my mind, it will be wiped from the annals of time.
My grasp of physics was never the best, which is why I turned toward computer science. It’s probably more than I can hope for that Hunter won’t recognize me from our brief interaction, but here’s to hoping.
A stream of memories comes barreling forth. Not the days when my brother was in grade school. Back then, I was in high school and barely aware of what my younger sibling did.
I’m thinking about when I went off to college, and my hormones finally woke up from their epic slumber.
Back when I finally noticed guys and felt desperate for them to acknowledge me, yet I had no idea how to make that happen.
Not when I was only a nerd girl who could help them ace a calculus test or a stats problem set.
I came home from college wholly unprepared for the sight of Hunter Reyes, who had grown into a chiseled rock of muscle with a face that made me blush on sight.
It was so embarrassing to be the older sister who couldn’t look a teenage soccer player in the eye without staring at his muscles while salivating.
It’s why I didn’t come home the summer after my junior year at all.
Sitting in Kyler’s kitchen now, I cover my eyes as though it can block the images from intruding on what was, until this moment, a decent cup of coffee.
Scenes of me wearing a lab coat, which hung from my non-curvy body like a tent.
Memories of teenage Hunter stifling a smirk when I couldn’t help but ogle how muscular his soccer thighs looked in his practice shorts.
Hunter and Ky sitting at our kitchen table, and Hunter averting his gaze like I was toxic to his eyes.
I felt like an older, leering spinster to his rugged high school athlete.
“It’s hopeless,” I mutter.
“What’s hopeless?”
I realize I spoke out loud. “Nothing. I was worried about Hunter’s house. It’s terrible.”
“Oh. I thought you were talking about him.”
“No. Of course not. Why would I do that?” My attempt at a casual laugh sounds like the croak from a marooned seal.
Kyler tilts his head at me quizzically and slides a glass of purple smoothie my way.
I grab it and chug half of it down, using the excuse to block the bloom of pink that hits my cheeks.
Immediately, the freeze hits my forehead, and I slam the glass down. “Ack, brain freeze.”
I close my eyes and press a fist against my forehead.
“That looks painful.”
My eyes pop open at the jarring, deep voice that does not belong to Kyler. I whip my head around and have such a confusing combination of reactions that my brain can’t decide whether to laugh, cry, or hide. My hands fly to my face and cover my eyes, then slide down and cover my mouth.
The man standing in Kyler’s kitchen is muscled and lava hot. A complicated web of tattoos snakes around one forearm, emphasizing the ropes of muscles.
Just as hot as he was when we spoke at the Sip ’n Fly airport bar a month ago. I fan my cheeks when I recall him chatting with me about Scottish romance novels. Judging from his stunned expression, which is quickly turning to a smirk, he remembers. But he covers it much better.
“Nice to see you, Gracie.” The growl of his voice does that same spine-tingling thing it did at the airport, only now I have no illusions about whether he’s flirting—he’s not. He doesn’t do that with me. But apparently he does let himself in without knocking.
I feel a wet slurping against my thigh and jump away when a large, golden retriever nose-bumps me, trying to get my attention.
“You afraid of dogs? I can try to find somewhere else for Bogie—”
“No, I’m good. I just didn’t see him, and he caught me by surprise.”
Bogie goes to the middle of the kitchen floor, circles twice, and lies down with his back feet splayed out behind him.
Hunter stares at me as if trying to discern something. Maybe he thinks I’m lying about the dog. Maybe he’s having trouble reconciling me with the woman he was talking to at the airport. Finally, he shifts his steely gaze to Kyler.
“Thanks for letting me crash, man.” He hugs my brother with a clap on the back.
“Of course.” If he thinks I’m acting strangely, he doesn’t say. “You remember my sister, obviously.”
I suck in a sharp breath at the sheer size of him—over six feet and muscled from shoulders to calves.
He’s even more beautiful than I remember.
I swear I can see the contours of his pecs and abs right through the fabric of his long-sleeved Devils jacket.
His track pants do no better at covering what looks like an anatomy textbook of muscle below the waist.
And…my eyes linger there until I hear a low chuckle.
I tear my gaze away from Hunter’s physique to glance down at my enormous but also threadbare sleep shirt.
It billows around my waist and hides whatever curves have managed to develop since my teen years.
Over that, I have on a stretched-out gray cardigan with Minnie Mouse on the back and a pair of black shorts.
My feet are stuffed into bunny slippers, complete with actual ears.
Because this is my brother’s house.
Because I’m not expecting strangers to walk in. I can only hope that he’s less angry and aggressive than he is on the soccer pitch. Otherwise, I’ll be spending a lot of time hiding in my room.
My head feels like a pool table with thoughts rebounding and knocking other ones out. Butter the toast. Yell at my brother. Stare at the muscles. Act aloof and unaffected by said muscles.
Fortunately, common sense finds its way through the conflicting bat signals in my brain. “Hunter, I’m sorry to hear about your house.” I force my gaze past his muscles and all the way to his face, where I stare at his unblinking eyes.
After a while, he waves a hand, and I realize I have no idea how long I’ve been eyeing him like a psychopath. I blink several times and smile nervously.
You’d think that all of this ineptitude around athletes means I have no business working for a professional sports team. But the issue isn’t people. Or men. It’s this man.
Twelve Years Earlier