Chapter Two
Hunter
Dylan. Fucking. Moore!
I close my office door and unpack my laptop and notepad from the bag over my shoulder before tossing it into the corner behind my desk. My heart slams against my chest, and my hands shake a little while I set up for the appointment—and not just any appointment.
Dylan Moore.
A dull anger pulses behind my skull, my insides twisting into a cold knot.
I feel like I’ve seen a ghost, which probably isn’t all that strange since there were a few years after he unceremoniously dumped my ass and vanished into the night when I didn’t know if he was alive or dead.
Back then, I’d begged the universe for just one glimpse, one chance to talk to him.
Ten years later, it seems my wish is finally coming true.
What the hell is he doing here?
I’d known he was alive and well for a few years now. Back when I’d first become a cop, I looked him up and found him living in some middle-of-nowhere town up north. While I’d been relieved to find him safe, I also had to face the fact that he really wanted nothing to do with me... until now.
I guess I shouldn’t be so shocked to see him.
Helene had put his name in my calendar, and while seeing Dylan Moore in my schedule had sent a weird, shivery wave rolling through me—a strange mix of anticipation and dread—I’d done my best to squash the sensation.
After all, it had to be a coincidence. I’m the last person Dylan would get in touch with after ten years, and I’d never considered him reaching out to hire me as an investigator.
Besides, there were other Dylan Moores in the world, and the one presently waiting for me in the lobby never tried to see me before, so why would I have ever suspected my Dylan Moore—not yours, not anymore—would be my ten o’clock.
Whatever Dylan’s here for, I should hand the case to Linc or Colin. It’s the right thing to do—there’s no way I can stay objective.
But both of them are still tied up in a meeting with the insurance agency Colin’s been courting. I’d actually felt lucky to have this appointment so I could duck out early. Schmoozing isn’t my thing.
Now? I’d give anything to be back in that conference room discussing hourly rates and surveillance techniques.
I scrub both hands down my face. I’m going to have to go out there and get him.
I can’t just leave him in the lobby all day—though doing just that is way too tempting.
I sigh. I might as well get this over with.
The sooner I see him, the sooner I can get him the hell out of here and never think about him again.
Good luck with that, an ugly voice whispers inside my head. You haven’t stopped thinking about him in a decade. Doubtful you’ll stop now.
I draw a deep breath and square my shoulders.
I can do this. We’re grown-ups now. Not teenagers playing at being in love.
We have both moved on with our lives, and I will treat him like any new client.
I swallow down the anger and hurt feelings.
We’d been friends before we’d started dating—probably why his disappearing act had felt like such a slap—I could be civil now.
By the time I’m back in the lobby, I’m much less convinced.
He stands from the sofa as I approach, his expression strangely uncertain, which is almost jarring.
Back when I’d known him, a scowl had practically been etched into his face—at least, until things between us changed—and he’d moved through the world with a defiant nonchalance that I’d envied.
He’s still one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen.
His black hair—shorter than before, but still unruly—falls across his face as he keeps brushing it back from his eyes, which are the same deep blue as the sky at dusk.
He’s still slender, but not as skinny as when we were together.
His shoulders have filled out—or maybe it’s the hooded sweatshirt layered under his navy pea coat making him look broader.
“This is weird, huh?” he says, then moistens his lips—a nervous habit I remember from another life.
I remember that mouth—how it always looked a little pouty, even when he was pissed off.
I used to kiss the frustration off his lips, taste the heat he never let anyone else see.
It was stupid, but just looking at him now, watching the way he licks his lips without thinking... it brings everything rushing back.
My cock twitches. I have to stop thinking about his mouth before I embarrass myself.
I clear my throat. “It doesn’t have to be. Come on back. Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
Just like any other new client.
I turn and lead him toward my office. Helene is watching with avid interest, and I know she can tell something is up. She’s Linc’s aunt, so I also know that Linc and Colin will no doubt have questions and likely opinions when they get back. I swallow the sigh building in the back of my throat.
In my office, I gesture to one of the chairs facing my desk before sitting down behind it. Dylan lowers himself to the edge of the seat, tension radiating from his frame. He shoves his hair back and moistens his lips, looking around my office, taking in the small space.
“It’s not what I expected,” he admits.
“No? What were you expecting?”
He shakes his head. “Something more hard-boiled. Trench coats. Fedoras.”
I smirk. “Not deerstalker caps or magnifying glasses?”
His straight brows lift, disappearing behind his hair that’s fallen into his face again. “Do you have a deerstalker cap and a magnifying glass?”
I chuckle before I can stop myself, but stop nearly as quickly, forcing my expression into a mask of neutrality. Grabbing a pen from the holder on the corner of my desk, I flip to an empty page in my notebook, writing down the date and Dylan’s name. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”
“Um... Look.... Hunter,” he begins, but I hold up my hand, cutting off what I suspect will be some weak-ass apology that will only piss me off.
“Tell me why you’re here.”
His throat jumps when he swallows and nods. “Right. Um... so... someone I know is missing... and I need help to find him. I think something bad might have happened.”
It costs me almost everything I have not to roll my eyes. Ten years without a word, and he shows up to help track down another man. Fuck my life.
“Who is he?”
“His name is Matthew Fraiser. He works for me and lives in the apartment over my business—I run a café.”
I nod, writing down everything he says. I knew about the café.
Dylan had been working there when I looked him up.
At least, this should be a fairly easy investigation.
Employing and renting to the man, Dylan would have a lot of personal information I could use to track this guy down.
It shouldn’t take me long. Then I could go back to my life and forget all about him. Sure, you will.
“Why do you think something’s happened to him?” I ask.
“Um... the night I met him, he had bruises around his neck.” Dylan’s hand drifts to his own throat, lightly tracing the skin just above his collarbone.
I remember how he used to respond when I kissed him there; how, when I’d press my lips to the hollow at the base of his throat, he’d shiver.
I shift in my seat, pushing the memory away while forcing myself to focus on what Dylan’s saying.
“As if someone had tried to choke him. He was acting afraid, too, like he was worried someone might come after him.”
My pen stills on the page, and I look up, eyes locking with Dylan’s brilliant blue gaze. “Did he tell you who?”
Dylan shakes his head. “He never really confirmed that someone hurt him. Just when I told him that I thought he might be in trouble, he didn’t deny it.”
Had Dylan swooped in as a protector, found him a place to live and a job? What were they to each other? Employer and employee? Friends? Or something more? My stomach churns at the thought.
I focus on my notes and do my best not to picture Dylan with someone else. “How long has he been missing?”
“Today’s the fifth day. I went to work on Saturday, and he never came down for his shift. So I checked the apartment to make sure he was okay, but he was gone, and so was his car. He hasn’t been back since.”
“How long has he been working for you?”
“Almost six weeks.”
“And he started renting your apartment at the same time?”
Dylan shifts in his chair. “It’s not that formal. He didn’t sign a lease or anything.”
I frown. “How do you know he didn’t just leave? Move on?”
“All his things were still in the apartment, even his phone.”
That didn’t mean much. If this Matthew Fraiser believed someone was following him, he might have ditched his phone, fearing it was being used to track him. As for his things, they could always be replaced—including his phone. The fact that his car was also gone made it look like he pulled a runner.
“Have you spoken to the police?”
He nods. “Twice. When he wasn’t back by Monday, I reported him missing yesterday. When I still hadn’t heard anything, I went back to see if the police had found anything.”
“Had they?” I’m fairly sure I know the answer.
Dylan shakes his head and shoves his hair back out of his face. “I don’t think they’re even looking. Given the way he’d started working for me, they think he’s just moved on.”
“And you don’t?” Right now, I agree with the cops. Matthew could have taken off for any number of reasons—he’d felt threatened, he got a better offer, he was bored. The list is extensive.