2. Hunter
Hunter
“Claire.”
Her name scrapes out of my throat like gravel, rough and raw. My tongue feels thick, my mouth tastes like I’ve been chewing cotton for a week, and everything’s hazy around the edges.
“Oh my God, he’s saying her name again.” Piper’s voice cuts through the fog, way too bright, way too smug. “I’m recording this.”
I try to open my eyes, but my lids weigh a thousand pounds. “Stop.”
“Never.” My sister’s laugh is evil. “This is gold. Mom, he’s mumbling about that doctor.”
That’s what I get for having a sister ten years younger than me.
“Piper, leave your brother alone.” Mom’s voice is softer, closer, and I feel her hand on my good shoulder. “Hunter, can you hear me?”
“Yeah.” I force my eyes open to slits. The recovery room swims into focus. Beige walls, fluorescent lights, the steady beep of monitors. My left arm feels like dead weight, wrapped and immobilized. “Surgery done?”
“All done,” Mom says, smoothing my hair back like I’m still ten years old. “Dr. Kapoor said it went well. They repaired the tendons and cleaned everything up. You’ll need physical therapy, but you should make a full recovery.”
Piper leans into my line of sight, her phone pointed at my face. “Say Claire’s name again. For the camera.”
“Go to hell.”
“There’s the brother I know and love.”
I close my eyes again, trying to pull together coherent thoughts through the anesthesia soup in my brain.
Claire. Dr. Claire Elliott. The way she looked at me in that ER bay, all buttoned up and professional while her eyes gave her away.
The hitch in her breath when I asked what happens when she’s not in control.
The way her hand twitched toward my scar like she wanted to touch me but wouldn’t let herself.
I want her hands on me again. Everywhere. No gloves this time.
“Why are you smiling?” Piper asks.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are. It’s creepy. You look high.”
“I am high, you menace.”
Voices drift from somewhere past the curtain. Dr. Kapoor’s distinct accent, professional and measured. Then Mom’s voice, quieter, asking questions I can’t quite make out.
I strain to listen through the post-op haze.
“Dr. Elliott specifically requested that I take this case,” Dr. Kapoor says. “She felt it was the most appropriate course of action given the circumstances.”
My eyes snap open.
Claire asked not to operate on me.
A grin pulls at my mouth despite the anesthesia drag. She’s running. Which means I got to her. Which means she felt it too, that live-wire pull between us in Bay Seven.
“Hunter?” Piper’s watching me with narrowed eyes. “What’s that look?”
“What look?”
“That look. Like you just won something.”
I did win something. Confirmation. Claire Elliott wants me, even if she’s fighting it with everything she’s got. A woman doesn’t pull herself off a case unless she’s compromised. Unless she can’t trust herself to keep things professional.
The thought sends heat through my chest despite the cold IV fluids.
“Mom said the doctor’s really pretty,” Piper says, settling into the chair beside my bed with a knowing smirk. “Esme’s been trying to set you two up for weeks.”
“Esme talks too much.”
“Esme’s a good friend. She knows you need someone who isn’t gone by sunrise.”
The words hit different than they should. Piper’s thrown that line at me a dozen times over the years, usually while I’m nursing a hangover and she’s making judgmental coffee in my kitchen. But this time, something in my gut twists.
I run my thumb over the scar on my right palm.
The old one, from fifteen years ago when I was green and stupid and didn’t respect the saw enough.
Jenna had been so pissed at me. Drove me to the ER while lecturing me about safety protocols, then held my hand while they stitched me up. She cried more than I did.
That was a lifetime ago.
I close my eyes and see Jenna’s funeral instead.
The casket, the flowers, the way my mom held me up when my knees gave out.
Ten years gone and I can still smell the lilies, the smell coating my throat, sickly sweet and choking.
The church pew was hard under my knees when they gave out.
Someone's hand—my mom's, maybe—pressed against my back.
Then there was the hollow ache of coming home to an empty house that was supposed to be full of kids and laughter and a future we’d planned out over Sunday morning coffee. I remember thinking how strange it was that I could see and talk to everyone there but not Jenna.
After that, I kept things simple. Clean. No feelings, no strings, no risk of that kind of loss again.
But Claire.
She looked at me like she saw straight through the flirty bullshit to something real underneath. Like she wanted to touch that scar and hear the story behind it. Like maybe she had her own scars she kept hidden under white coats and perfect professionalism.
“You’re thinking about her,” Piper says.
“Shut up.”
“You are. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“Like you actually care.” She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Hunter. Are you ready for this? Because if you’re just going to do your usual thing and bail after a few weeks, leave this one alone. Esme says Claire’s been through enough.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Means her ex did a number on her. Means she deserves someone who’s going to stick around.” Piper’s eyes bore into mine. “So I’m asking. Are you finally ready to date someone who isn’t gone by sunrise?”
The question sits heavy in the recovery room air.
Am I?
Six months ago, the answer would’ve been hell no.
But six months ago, I hadn’t met Claire Elliott.
Hadn’t seen the way she fought to stay professional while her eyes went dark with want.
Hadn’t felt the buzz of recognition when she looked at me, like we were both circling the same dangerous thing and trying to pretend we weren’t.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “I want to pursue her.”
Piper’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Huh.” She sits back, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “Well, this should be interesting.”
Three days later, I’m home on my couch, arm in a sling, bored out of my skull.
Rain hammers the metal roof, that steady drumbeat I've listened to since living in this house.
The fire in the stone hearth has burned down to embers, casting orange shadows across the knotty pine walls.
My coffee's gone cold on the side table, next to a stack of unread crime thrillers Franklin dropped off.
But all I can do is think about Claire’s mouth.
Again.
Still.
I’ve thought about that mouth so many times in the last seventy-two hours that I could draw it from memory. The shape of her lips, the way they parted when I asked what happens when she’s not in control, the tight line they pressed into when she was trying not to react to me.
I want to mess up that control. Want to see her let go.
My phone sits on the coffee table, taunting me.
I could text her. Should text her, probably, since we’re supposed to be coordinating wedding stuff. Best man and maid of honor have duties. Responsibilities. Perfectly legitimate reasons to communicate.
Except I don’t have her number.
I grab my phone and pull up Esme’s contact.
Me: Need Claire’s number for wedding coordination.
Three dots appear immediately.
Esme: HUNTER ASHE. Are you actually going to ask her out?
Me: Need her number first.
Esme: Franklin said you’ve been asking about her.
Me: Franklin has a big mouth.
Esme: You two are PERFECT together. She needs someone who won’t let her hide behind work, and you need someone who won’t put up with your commitment-phobic BS.
Me: You writing a matchmaking manual?
Esme: I’m ORDAINED. I can marry you two after I marry Franklin.
Me: Getting ahead of yourself.
Esme: Fine. Here’s her number. But Hunter? Don’t mess this up. She’s been hurt enough.
The number appears in my messages. I stare at it for a solid minute, pulse kicking up like I’m about to jump off a cliff.
Then I open a new browser tab and Google “flower delivery Indigo Hills.”
The flowers arrive at Northwest General the next afternoon. I know because my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number at 2:47 PM.
Unknown: This is Claire. Stop sending me flowers.
I grin at my phone.
Me: Hello to you too, Doc.
Claire: I’m serious. This is inappropriate.
Me: The card said “Still thinking about me? Cause I’m thinking about you.” That’s not inappropriate. That’s honest.
Claire: We are not doing this.
Me: Doing what?
Claire: Whatever you think this is.
Me: You’re the one who asked Esme for my number.
The three dots appear, disappear, appear again. I can practically see her deleting and retyping, fighting with herself.
Claire: I did not.
Me: Esme doesn’t lie. Which means you’re thinking about me too.
Claire: You’re impossible.
Me: You’re avoiding the question.
Claire: There was no question.
Me: Are you thinking about me, Claire?
The dots disappear. One minute passes. Two. Three.
Then…
Claire: No.
Me: Liar.
Claire: Goodbye, Hunter.
Me: See you at the fitting on Saturday. Esme says we both have to be there.
No response.
I toss my phone onto the couch and lean my head back, grinning at the ceiling like an idiot.
She’s running. But she’s not running fast enough.
It’s been dark for hours, and I finally lie in bed and let myself imagine it.
The house is dark except for moonlight through the pine trees outside my window. I can still smell the woodsmoke from tonight's fire clinging to the flannel I tossed on the chair. My calloused hands are rough against the sheets.
Claire showing up at my stone house. Some excuse about checking on my recovery, making sure I’m following Dr. Kapoor’s post-op instructions. She'd climb the three porch steps and knock on the cedar door I planed and hung myself, maybe part her lips as she inhales the fresh air.
She’d be all business at first, that white coat armor firmly in place, her heels clicking on the wide-plank floors.
She'd look around the space at the rough-hewn beams, the stone fireplace I built with my own hands, and the lack of anything even remotely sterile or controlled.
And I'd see it click for her. This is who I am.
Wood and stone and sweat. And a little mess.
As far from her sanitized hospital as you can get.
But I’d see through it. See the way her eyes would track to my bare chest, the way her breath would catch when I stepped close. And underneath that doctor’s coat? A red lace number from Victoria’s Secret that would put the angels to shame.
“Just making sure you’re healing properly,” she’d say, professional and cool.
“That right?” I’d back her against the kitchen counter, using my good arm to cage her in. “What’s the prognosis, Doc?”
“Hunter.” My name would sound like a warning, but her pupils would be blown wide.
“Tell me you’re not thinking about me.” I’d lean in close enough to smell whatever expensive perfume she wears. “Tell me you didn’t lie in that text.”
She wouldn’t answer. She’d just look at my mouth like she’s starving for it.
So I’d give it to her.
Kiss her hard and deep, swallow whatever protest she tries to make.
She’d taste like coffee and something sweet, and she’d melt against me despite every professional boundary she’s trying to maintain.
Her hands would slide up my chest, careful of my injury but hungry anyway, and I’d grip her hip with my good hand and lift her onto the counter.
“We can’t,” she’d gasp against my mouth.
“We are.”
I’d kiss down her throat while she arches into me, her lingerie so easy to peel away. She’d be soft everywhere, curves and heat, and when I finally got my mouth on her, she’d gasp as my beard scraped her collarbone.
My right hand’s already wrapped around my cock before I fully register what I’m doing.
It’s rough with calluses and scarred knuckles, the kind of hand that's gripped chain pulls and axe handles since I was sixteen. I want these hands on her, so she can feel exactly what kind of man I am. I’m hard as steel, aching, and all I can think about is Claire’s smooth, competent hands on me.
Her mouth. The way she looked at me in that ER bay like she wanted to devour me but wouldn’t let herself.
I stroke slow at first, imagining her touch instead of mine. Imagining pulling her onto my lap with my good arm, feeling her weight settle over me, watching her face as she takes what she wants.
She’d be gorgeous falling apart. All that control finally breaking.
I’d make her say my name. Make her admit she’s been thinking about me since the moment we met. Make her stop running.
The orgasm hits hard and fast, my breath coming rough as I spill over my fist.
Jesus.
I lie here catching my breath, staring at the ceiling beams of my home, feeling like a teenager who just jerked off to his teacher.
Except Claire’s not my teacher. She’s the woman I’m going to chase until she stops pretending she doesn’t want to be caught.