13. THIRTEEN
THIRTEEN
You know what is fucking crazy ? The fact that I… care .
Hunter is a stranger.
Stranger.
I’ve known his name for less than forty-eight hours. I’ve known his face for slightly more. Yet here I am, caring that he’s going to run late. Imagine that?
I can’t recall the last time I truly gave a fuck about anyone. Probably some of the kids at the group home, but that was so long ago that those memories all blend together. If I had to really dissect it, I cared about Caleb—my ex.
Not enough to make me miss him or wonder what might’ve been, but I did give a fuck.
So what gives? Is this some weird, suppressed attachment issue I’ve never realized I have? Am I clinging to this dude because he’s been nice to me?
I side-eye Hunter while he drives faster than before, white-knuckling the steering wheel and chewing his cheek like bubble gum.
It’s difficult to determine if I care out of fear or something else.
It’s possible that running late for his meeting with the governor —yeah, I still haven’t forgotten that part—will make him change his mind about helping.
He could see the writing on the wall, knowing that he and I should’ve never met, let alone whatever white-knight crap he was pulling.
Our worlds don’t mix for a reason. Hell, maybe his dad already knows about his new hobby and will tell him to call it quits this instant because the snoots he calls friends won’t like any of this.
I doubt that looks good for their clean-cut appearances.
A…COO or whatever mingling with a homeless guy? Especially one that looks like me ?
Yeah. It’s probably all over, and Hunter knows it.
That’s why he’s so tense. That’s why he doesn’t want to talk and—
“Do you mind if…after I’m done at my parents’ house, I come back? To the cabin, I mean.”
My head flies in his direction.
“There are four bedrooms,” he continues. “I don’t mind staying on the second floor if you want space.”
“You don’t want to go home?” I ask, curious. All of his stuff is at his house. I’m sure he’s got a great bed, too.
“I live there, but it isn’t a home. Not really.”
“Oh.”
That’s all I’ve got at the moment.
He glances at me. “You can say no, Gray.”
And have him leave me fucking stranded? Not happening. “It’s…fine. Still not fucking you, though,” I say, making that line in the sand extremely clear.
“I’m not doing this to get in your pants,” he snaps. “I don’t—I’m not—”
Oof. That struck a nerve. “I’m just saying .”
“And so am I. That’s not what I’m trying to achieve. I’m not gay.”
“Said every closeted man ever ,” I drawl and snort.
The leather under his fingers squeaks. “I’m simply stressed about work; my dad is overbearing, and I want to see this through because I said I would.
I don’t break my word.” That little bit of skin poking through his beard is flushed ruby.
His eyes frantically scan the road like an alien mothership is going to land on us.
“Okay,” I say gently. “Sorry,” I throw in just for good measure.
With a heavy sigh, he releases the wheel with his right hand and rubs his jaw. The silence is thick, clouding up the damn car while I wait for him to say something. I don’t know what I expect him to say, but my stomach drops when he finally speaks.
“I lied,” he whispers. “I am gay. It’s…a habit to deny it. But I’m not lying about anything else.” He looks at me. “I promise you that.”
The cabin isn’t a cabin , not really. It’s a rustic beachfront house, but I know it cost a fortune: two-story, gabled roof with—you guessed it—pale blue paint.
A big tree overhangs the left side of the house, a smooth paved road leads through the private property, and down a pathway facing east is a personal dock complete with a pricey speedboat.
It's isolated from the rest of the bougie community.
This house seems as if it is too good to be lumped in with the rest of the ones we drove past. The only other house is a way down the road, and you'd have to scream with all your might to be heard.
With the sun setting, oranges and pinks light up the sky, and dark clouds roll in from the west, threatening to swallow all that color. It feels symbolic— ironic , even.
I take one step into a place that isn’t meant for me, and everything turns grey.
“I’ll show you around, get you settled, then leave. I’m not sure what time I’ll be back, but make yourself at home,” Hunter says before getting out of the car.
This is the first thing he’s said since his confession.
I didn’t know what to say earlier, and I could tell he was extremely uncomfortable afterward, so I don’t realize he’s opening my door until my eyes snag on his narrow hips directly in front of my face.
He’s got my brand-spankin’ new crutches tucked to his side.
“Sorry,” I mumble, holding my food close with one hand while reaching for the frame with the other. My leg doesn’t want to cooperate, though. The pain has only increased due to the long car ride.
“Here,” a hand shoots out, “let me.”
I go to hand him the bag so I can grab the crutches, but he sighs and takes my free one instead.
With care, he pulls me up and onto my feet.
It’s the first time I've noticed how smooth and warm his hands are. I’d clocked the lack of callouses before, but feeling their absence against my skin is different.
Fuck, I don’t hate it either.
“Just a bit more, and then you can elevate that leg,” he says, offering me a timid smile.
My heart thumps harder, and he doesn’t release my hand. Instead, he guides me to the crutches, easing each under my armpits. The gentle way he handles me is so foreign that I go along with it. Only then does he release his gentle grip, and he walks beside me to the front door and unlocks it.
A sudden dryness takes over my mouth and lips, years worth of residual dehydration choosing now to cause an effect. I wet my lips quickly, following Hunter inside, and hold my crutches in a death grip.
I’m…fuck…I’m rattled. I don’t know why, either.
When I see a couch with a chaise in the front room, I head straight for it. Hunter chuckles, flipping on the light. “That was fast.”
“Huh?” I croak, heat crawling up my neck while I tuck the crutches beside the couch.
“Right at home.” He smirks and nods at my reclined position.
Home. He says it like it’s true. He says it like it’s reality. And that satisfied look in his eyes is new. It’s messing with my head.
“Might as well, right?”
What is wrong with me?
“Down that hall is the bedroom, and across is the bathroom. The kitchen is there,” he hikes a thumb over his shoulder, “and upstairs, there are just more rooms. Nothing too fancy.” Walking across the space, he pulls open a drawer in the large entertainment center, retrieving a remote.
“If you want to watch TV. We have all the streaming channels, and I think my mom has a few movies downloaded.”
He offers it to me. My eyes snag on his long, masculine fingers, mentally tracing the veins curling over the top of his hand.
They’re bigger than mine, but not by much—the kind of hands that could protect something if needed.
“Thanks.” I take it quickly, making sure to pluck it in a way where I don’t touch him.
“Do you need anything?”
Overwhelmed, hot, and in pain, I shake my head.
I need a minute to breathe—to collect myself and calm the hell down.
For someone as adamant as I have been about what this isn’t , I can’t fucking look at the guy.
The men I know who dip their toes into the dude pool aren’t like Hunter.
They are rough-edged, aggressive, and so far deep into their denial that even if I wanted something from one of them, I’d never get it.
I’m hung up on that fact. I’m hung up on how much I never realized I might…want something someday. Maybe.
“Alright. We have a landline, so if you’d like me to bring back something, call me.”
I nod this time, rendered mute.
“Gray?”
Shit. “Yeah?”
“Did I make you uncomfortable?”
Slowly, I raise my eyes to his. I spot it immediately. Deep, deep shame fills his hazel irises. That peaceful aura beaming out of them moments ago is gone. Oh hell. “No. I’m just tired and,” I gesture at my leg, “hurtin’.”
“I’ll get your things.”
He rushes outside and returns with all my bags and medicine a few moments later.
Setting them within my reach, he opens one of the water bottles we got on the way out and puts it on the flat armrest. His eyes dart to my leg, and he hums thoughtfully.
I watch him dash away again, a door opening and shutting fast; then he’s back with a stack of pillows.
A silent question crosses his gaze, and I nod. Chills erupt over my skin as he touches my ankle; even through the sweatpants, the heat from his palm is present.
I can’t even begin to understand why my heart is racing.
With my leg propped up, he grabs a thick throw blanket from the other end of the couch. “It gets chilly in here.”
“Thanks.”
“Okay. I’m gonna go.”
I stare at him. “You haven’t moved.”
A nervous laugh leaves him as he runs that hand through his hair. No wonder the strands never fall into his face. They’ve been trained backward due to his insistent fingers. “I’ll be back.” This time, he walks to the front door.
When he grips the handle, pausing, I think he will linger some more, but he doesn’t.
Just as he passes through the threshold, I catch his lips moving to form the word: fuck.