Chapter 8
Claire
Saturday couldn’t arrive sooner. The weekend breakfast at Hank & Lulu’s Diner is my weekly ritual. Coffee, pancakes, and the local paper while the rest of Indigo Hills sleeps off Friday night. It’s quiet, predictable, and mine.
Except this morning. Hunter Ashe slides onto the stool next to me at the counter as if he does this every Saturday.
“You following me now?” I don’t look up from my paper.
“Nope. I’ve been coming here every Saturday since I was sixteen. You’re the one in my spot.”
I glance over. He’s in jeans and a worn t-shirt, looking frustratingly good. “There are eight other empty stools.”
“True.” He flags down Lulu Jenkins, who’s been running this place since before I moved to Texas. “Morning, Lulu. Can I get the usual?”
“Hunter Ashe, how’s that arm treating you?” Lulu narrows her eyes at his scar.
“Better now that this one finally agreed to go on a date with me.”
Lulu looks between us with the expression of a woman who’s seen everything twice. “Did she now?”
“She did.” He says it easily, like it’s a simple fact. “I’m picking her up at four.”
“Hunter.” My voice carries a warning I don’t entirely mean. “You don’t have to tell all our business.”
He laughs, taking the outstretched coffee cup from Lulu. “As if you didn’t already know that.”
Lulu points to the corner where Luke Wilder sits with one of his nephews. “Your buddy beat you to it.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course he did.”
Lulu grabs some plates from the service window, then sets down my pancakes with more force than necessary. “That man is solid as they come. Known his family since they moved to town. Did you know that Luke Wilder started raising his nephews before he even turned twenty-five?”
“Lulu—”
“I’m just saying.” She tops off my coffee. “My grandson Ricky works at Wilder Industries. Says those Wilder boys and Hunter here are the best bosses in the county.”
Hunter says nothing, but he’s smiling like he just won something
The warm evening breeze billows around us as we walk through the Indigo Hills Historical District.
One Saturday evening per quarter, the chamber of commerce partners with the local arts foundation to organize an art walk through the business district.
Local shops and businesses host curated exhibitions where community members and visitors can mingle with Hill Country artists.
We step inside the Battered Bliss Emporium, where a selection of dioramas are on display throughout the store.
I’m drawn to a Victorian parlor scene on one of the display counters, complete with tiny velvet furniture and a working chandelier the size of a thimble, when Hunter’s hand finds the small of my back.
“This one’s my favorite.” He leads me toward a diorama of an old saw mill with tiny logs stacked in neat piles and a miniature saw blade that actually rotates when you press a button. There are even tiny axes embedded in a couple of logs near a mill pond. Someone spent months on this.
“The craftsmanship is remarkable.” I lean closer, impressed at the artist’s abilities. “Look at the grain on those miniature planks.”
“Thank you.”
My head pops up to see a man about our age standing nearby.
He has dark hair and blue eyes, his jeans molding to his muscular body without being tight.
He’s wearing a white button down shirt with the sleeves rolled to reveal heavily inked forearms. His vintage vest says money without being pretentious.
“Are you the artist?” I smile, impressed with his work.
He holds out his hand, strong and sure. “I’m Levi.”
“Hey, man.” Hunter pulls Levi into a half-hug, both men slapping each other on the back.
“Hunter. Great to see you here, brother.”
“Same.” Hunter’s lower jaw shifts to one side, his eyebrows drawing together. “I thought you were keeping things on the down-low.”
“Mostly.” The artist scrubs his face before motioning to his diorama with an open hand. “Using a pseudonym. Keeps life interesting.”
“Am I missing something?”
Both men wait a beat before Hunter fills in the blanks. “Levi is my tattoo artist.”
My eyes dart to Hunter’s arms, sculpted even underneath his linen button-down.
Memories of the shoulder tattoo spring to mind, the intricate map with various locations zoomed into geometric shapes.
My tummy flips as heat travels straight between my legs.
My cheeks burn from the memory, so I take a sip of wine to distract myself.
We visit for several minutes before a married couple ambles over, hand-in-hand, two older men asking about the piece and inquiring if Levi does commissions. Hunter and I view the rest of the dioramas before heading outside.
We stop at the corner, waiting to cross the street. I turn toward him, tilting my head to the side. “You surprise me, Hunter.”
He chuckles, his eyes narrowing slightly. “In what way?”
“You agreed to the Art Walk with no hesitation and have a tattoo artist who moonlights as a fine artist. Plus, you actually look at art and pay attention to craftsmanship.” I pause. “Most people just walk through these things for the wine.”
“I’m here for the cheese.”
I didn’t know that a hazel-eyed wink could be so swoon-worthy.
We drift through three more pop-up galleries.
Hunter asks questions that tell me he’s actually listening, not just pretending to care about art because I picked this date.
When I talk to an artist pair about their the difference in their encaustic and oil painting techniques, he leans in close enough that I can smell sawdust and something clean, like sandalwood.
“You’re good at this,” I say as we step back onto the sidewalk.
“At what?”
“Paying attention.”
“You’re worth paying attention to.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious, and I realize this is exactly what I was afraid of… that he’d make it impossible to walk away after three dates.
“Ready to head to dinner?”
“Yes! I am famished.” Normally we don’t have to make reservations at Adriatic Kitchen, but the antique fair has brought in a lot of tourists. I can practically taste their marsala ravioli.
The cobblestones are uneven here where the historical district meets Main Street. My heel catches in a gap between stones and I stumble forward. Hunter’s good arm wraps around my waist, catching me before I face-plant into the brick sidewalk.
“Got you.”
We’re suddenly very close. His hand is warm and solid against my ribs, my palms flat against his chest. I can feel his heart beating under my fingers, steady and strong. When I look up, his face is inches from mine, and whatever I see in his eyes makes my own heart slam against my ribs.
“Thanks,” I manage.
“Anytime.” His voice is rougher than it was a second ago.
Neither of us moves.
The noise of the art walk fades into background static. There’s only the warmth of his hand, the way he’s looking at me like I’m something he’s been searching for, the pull low in my stomach that’s been there since St. Sebastian.
“Claire.” My name comes out quiet. Almost careful.
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to kiss you now unless you tell me not to.”
I should tell him not to. We’re in public on Main Street where half the town can see us. This is only date one of three. I don’t do public displays of anything.
“Okay,” I hear myself whisper.
His mouth curves just slightly before he leans down. But instead of kissing me, he takes my hand and pulls me into the shadowed alcove between the Battered Bliss Emporium and the gallery next door.
The brick wall is cool against my back. Hunter steps in close, boxing me in without actually touching me, and the anticipation of it makes my breathing go shallow.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi yourself.”
His good hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb tracing along my jaw. He’s taking his time, watching my eyes like he’s memorizing something, and the deliberateness of it makes me want to grab his shirt and pull him down myself.
“You’re beautiful,” he says. “I’ve been wanting to do this since the diner.”
“Since this morning?”
“Since St. Sebastian.” His thumb brushes across my bottom lip. “Since the zip tie, if I’m being honest.”
Then he kisses me.
It’s nothing like the almost-kiss on the beach. This is thorough and claiming and so complete that every carefully planned goal I’ve ever had just evaporates. His mouth is warm and sure, and when I make a sound against his lips, he deepens the kiss until I forget where we are entirely.
My hands find his shirt, fisting in the fabric, and he presses closer. The brick wall digs into my shoulder blades but I don’t care because Hunter Ashe is kissing me like I’m the only thing that matters and my entire nervous system is on board with this plan.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his hand still cupping my face.
“Hiking,” he says, his voice rough. “Tomorrow.”
It’s not a question. It’s a statement delivered with the kind of certainty that should irritate me but instead makes everything below my waist clench.
“Hunter...”
“My place.” His thumb traces my jaw again. “We’re having our second date whether you like it or not.”
The audacity of it makes me laugh, breathless and surprised. “What if I have plans?”
“Cancel them.” He grins. “Nine o’clock, Claire. Say yes.”
Everything in me that’s responsible and careful and achievement-oriented is screaming that this is moving too fast. But there’s another part of me, the part that woke up in St. Sebastian, that wants to say yes to everything this man is offering.
“Okay,” I say. “Nine o’clock. Your place.”
His smile could rival the sun. He kisses me once more, quick and possessive, before taking my hand and leading me back onto the sidewalk like he didn’t just rearrange my entire evening.