Chapter Five
Dylan
As soon as I pull the door closed on Hunter’s truck, I turn and find him staring expectantly at me from the driver’s seat. His dark eyes are hard, and his jaw is tight. He looks pissed, and I shrink back a little in my seat. His frown deepens.
“What the hell, Dylan?” he growls, and my skin prickles.
The cab of Hunter’s truck suddenly feels too small, the air charged with an invisible energy that both scares and thrills me.
His presence is huge in the tight space, and I can’t decide if I want to run or lean into it.
I draw a shuddering breath. “I know, I know. I’m sorry.
They caught me off guard, and I didn’t know what else to say. ”
He shoots me a hard look. “Seriously? Couldn’t you have thought of anything else? An old friend, perhaps? A supplier for your business? Or, maybe, an investigator you’re working with to track down your missing friend?”
He has a point. Of all the excuses I could have made, why had I told them he was my boyfriend?
I love my friends. Over the years, they’ve become family.
I don’t look forward to lying when I face the inevitable questions about my fake relationship until I can fake a breakup.
In spite of what I’ve just done, I don’t like lying, especially to people I care about.
And, as I’ve just proved, I’m not particularly good at it.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him again. “It was the first thing that popped into my head. I hadn’t expected to see you, and I didn’t know what to tell them when they asked.”
Exasperated, Hunter lifts his hands, then slaps them down on the steering wheel. “What’s wrong with the truth?”
I shrug and try to swallow, but my mouth is dry.
“After what happened this morning, I think someone’s watching the Maple Shade.
If Matthew is out there, I didn’t want to spook him, or if someone has Matthew, I didn’t want to announce that I was working with a detective, in case they felt threatened and hurt him. ”
Hunter’s features soften, frustration giving way to concern. “Why do you think you’re being watched?”
I jerk a shoulder, my face heating, and I drop my gaze to my hands, smoothing my jeans. “Nothing I can put my finger on, exactly. It’s just a feeling, like a weight. You know?”
I risk a look at Hunter, half-expecting him to roll his eyes or make fun of me, to tell me I’m overreacting. He doesn’t. Instead, he nods. “I know.”
“Then, this morning...” I try to swallow, my throat suddenly tight.
The memory of the figure coming at me, sending me tumbling down the stairs, floods my head, and a shudder ripples through me.
“Whoever it was in the apartment was looking for something of Matt’s.
I’m not usually in that early, so they wouldn’t have guessed I’d be there.
They must have known Matt’s belongings were still there, that I hadn’t tossed them or found someone new to move in. ”
“He’s only been gone a week,” Hunter says, rubbing his chin with the back of his hand. “Whether someone is watching the café or not, they probably wouldn’t have expected you to have cleared out his things already.”
He’s right, of course. It’s only been a week.
I don’t know what I was thinking. The adrenaline from earlier, which distracted me from my injuries from the fall, has long since worn off, and my body aches.
A steady throb in my head beats in time with my pulse.
The lack of sleep is catching up with me, too, leaving my thoughts slow and sticky, as if they’re smothered in honey.
“Yeah, that makes sense. Um... Can we go? I want to get home and take some ibuprofen.”
“You’re in pain?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for me to respond before he leans closer. I shrink back against the door, the handle digging into my side and making me wince.
“I’m... I’m okay.”
He leans over me, that wide expanse of chest inches from my face. His scent, the warm sandalwood of his soap and something richer, muskier and all him, teases my senses. I close my eyes, while his fingers, feather-soft, gingerly probe the cut on my head.
Despite the sharp, bruised feeling, goosebumps stipple my skin, and I have to hold myself against the shiver slithering up my spine. Ten years, and the slightest touch from this man still lights me up like a Christmas tree.
“There’s a bump,” he murmurs, “but it’s not bleeding.”
“It stopped bleeding a while ago,” I rasp, then clear my throat. “I put ice on it earlier. I’ll do it again at home.”
Hunter sinks back into his seat and nods. “You’re sure you shouldn’t be going to a hospital?”
“Yes.” I make no effort to hide my exasperation. “I didn’t hit my head that hard. The railing was sharp. I should probably have it replaced.”
“What about tetanus?”
“I’m up to date.”
I’m lucky it’s just a bump and a shallow cut on my scalp, along with a few bruises. When I stepped back off the landing, I fell sideways into the rail. I hit my head on the edge of the handhold, but I was able to grab on before falling more than a few steps.
Hunter gives me a long, measuring look as if trying to decide if he believes me or not.
That serious stare reminds me so much of the Hunter I knew ten years ago; my chest aches.
He took care of everyone he loved, worried about them, and for a time, I’d been lucky enough to be one of those chosen few—until I fucked everything up like I always do.
“Okay,” he says finally, starting the engine. “Where am I taking you?”
I direct him through town, past shops and colonial homes, then smaller clapboard houses until the road narrows into thick forest. Bare branches twist together under heavy slate clouds, making the woods look eerie and haunted.
“It’s the first left,” I tell him, pointing to a narrow gap in the trees.
He nods and slows, ready to make the turn, but doesn’t speak. He’s been pretty much silent since the truck started moving. The quiet makes me uneasy.
“You never told me why you came. Did you find Matthew?” I ask.
He shakes his head, steering onto the dirt road that leads to my cabin. “No, unfortunately, but I did find where he was before he made his way to you. I’ll go over all that when we get to your place.”
“Mine is the first driveway on the right,” I tell him.
He steers down the winding gravel drive to the A-frame cabin at the edge of a fast-flowing river. He throws the truck into park and cuts the engine. Quiet settles between us, except for the muffled rush of the water and the quiet ticks of the cooling engine.
“You really live here?” he asks.
“It’d be weird to ask you to take me to someone else’s place.”
He huffs out a chuckle that cuts off abruptly. Almost as if he hadn’t meant to let it out at all. “It’s not what I would have pictured for you?”
“Never saw me living out in the woods like an outdoorsman?”
“Never imagined you would have settled for any of this—the café, the cabin, a small town in the middle of nowhere. I figured you would have gone to New York, Philadelphia, maybe, but definitely somewhere more urban, and not so close to Burlington.”
He hadn’t asked me why I’d left, but this is the closest he’d come.
“Honestly, I wound up here by accident. That piece of shit car I used to drive broke down a few miles outside Fieldstone. I found my way here and just sort of stayed.” This is definitely the condensed version of how I settled here, but I’m still not sure how much he really wants to know. “Do you want to come inside?”
He huffs out another laugh, but this time it’s humorless and bitter, and he shakes his head. “Sure. Why not?”
He gets out of the car and grabs his satchel from behind his seat, then follows me to the door. Inside, the cabin is cool and shadowed by the woods outside. I switch on a few lamps and crouch at the fireplace, sneaking glances at Hunter as he studies the room.
The house is small and cozy, with the kitchen along the back wall and a spiral staircase in the middle acting as a divider between the kitchen and living area and leading up to the loft and my bedroom.
As I get the fire going, Hunter meanders to the wide floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the river.
“This is nice,” he says without looking at me.
“Thanks.” The fire’s caught, and I lean back on my knees, looking at his broad back. I can see his reflection in the glass like a ghost, and for some reason, my throat tightens as if I might cry if I let myself. Shit, I must be tired.
“The water’s higher than normal from the spring runoff. By the end of the summer, that river will be barely more than a trickle,” I tell him for some reason. Something to fill the tense silence, I guess.
He turns from the window abruptly. “Is there ice in your freezer?”
I blink at the sudden shift in conversation. “Um... yeah.” Where else would it be?
He crosses to the refrigerator and pulls open the freezer door before taking out an ice tray. “What about something to put in?”
“There’s a dish towel hanging over the oven handle.” He’s getting an ice pack for my head, I realize. I stand and start toward him. “Here, I can do it.”
He looks up from where he’s dumping the contents of the tray into a makeshift bag using the dish towel around his index finger and thumb. “No.” He points to the sofa. “Sit. I’ll bring it to you.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m fine, you know. I can get my own ice pack.”
And I could, but if I’m being totally honest, I’m not completely fine. My body aches as if it’s one big bruise, and I’m so tired I could curl up on the sofa and sleep until next week.
I drop onto the couch, and Hunter brings me his makeshift ice pack, wrapping it in the dishtowel that had been draped over the handle of the oven.
“Here,” he says, gently pressing the pack to the cut on my head. “Where do you keep your ibuprofen?”
I sigh. There’s no point in arguing that I can get it myself, since he’s not listening. “The cabinet behind the mirror in the bathroom.”