Chapter 4 Hunter #2
I stumbled across a recipe that called for aquavit—like I was going to find that in Wishing Tree—take that, Wesley.
No ingredients, no drinks. However, the original post mentioned that there were workarounds.
It suggested I could replace it with something simpler and perhaps create a child-friendly version with cream and spice for the kids.
It was ridiculous that I was even considering it.
Jamie poked his head around the door. “All locked up.”
“Thank you, Jamie.”
“You look better,” he murmured.
“Thank you.”
“No worries, night, Mr. McCoy,” Jamie said.
I was immersed in Nordic traditions when a notification box appeared, alerting me to an incoming email. I imagined it would be spam, but the address was anything but spam, and I opened it hurriedly.
I stared at the email for a long beat, a rush of relief flooding me that someone had finally gotten back to me at all.
An interview at North Hollow University in Middlebury.
Relief flooded me. They might not have been my first choice, but it was something, a door cracked open after what would be two years out of the life I was supposed to be in.
Someone wants me.
Still, I booked the interview—next Wednesday, because apparently I was doing everything I’d sworn I wouldn’t.
hated having to interview at all. Back at Ashcroft University, as Assistant Professor of History, I’d been on track for tenure, a shoo-in for when the senior professor retired—until Michael fucking Carrington III, my ex and fellow professor, took it out from under me.
Irritation turned to a spike of anger, and all because I thought of that rich as fuck, backstabbing trust fund baby, asshole.
I’m better than him.
I was an acknowledged expert in American Colonial and Early Republic history, holding a doctorate from Yale with a focus on political culture in the Early Republic.
I’d published two monographs, along with more than a dozen peer-reviewed articles in journals like The William and Mary Quarterly and Early American Studies.
I’d presented keynote papers at national history conferences, contributed chapters to collected volumes on the Revolutionary era, and served as a peer reviewer for several academic presses.
My students praised my ability to connect complex political and social ideas to everyday lives, and I’d built a reputation as a demanding but inspiring professor.
In short, I wasn’t just competent—I was damn good at what I did.
Despite telling myself I was better than North Hollow, smaller than the big-name institutions, and more of a liberal arts–style college, it had a solid reputation for history, but it wasn’t elite.
The kind of place I sneered at, even while part of me knew how arrogant that sounded.
The thought came with a sharp edge of arrogance, and that floored me.
I’m not above it all; I’m not too good for any kind of teaching position.
What the hell?
What had I become?
Christ, when had I turned into such a judgmental, self-absorbed prick?
Restless with my own self-importance and arrogance, I bundled up and stepped outside. There’d been light flurries of snow this morning, and the evening was cold, but I needed to move, to clear my head.
“Hi!” Duncan called from The Gift Emporium.
I waved but carried on walking even though I knew he’d probably be happy to come over and chat.
I wasn’t in the mood for standing in the cold, so I went down past the Wishing Tree and kept on toward the skating pond.
It wasn’t frozen yet, but soon it would be, and I could already imagine kids shrieking with laughter as they skated under strings of colored bulbs.
Tonight, it was just me, the dark, and the sting of November air.
I sat on a bench, pulled my coat tighter, and glanced at my watch.
Seven p.m. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since noon.
Maybe I should give in and go out for dinner tonight—anywhere that wasn’t silent enough for me to hear my own thoughts.
What would happen if I went to this interview and it didn’t go well? What if I wasn’t good enough?
Michael said he deserved the spot, given he wasn’t as old as me, as if my thirty-four was much worse than his thirty. He said I was too focused and rigid in my teaching, in our sex life, hell, in my entire life.
“Fuck you, Michael,” I muttered under my breath, too tired to deal with all this shit tonight.
“I’m over this shit,” I slumped further into the corner of the bench and sighed, feeling so damn sorry for myself.
Great, and here comes the pity party.
Frustrated, I walked the town’s outskirts, maybe a couple of miles in all, before ending up at Biscuit in the Basket—BBs to anyone local.
The name originated from a hockey-scoring term, which was apt, given that the owner’s son was a former professional hockey player.
The place was warm and humming with quiet chatter, a contrast to the cold, dark streets outside.
I slid into a corner booth, still tense, and almost immediately, Molly, stalwart waitress of BBs and also my assistant Jamie’s mom, appeared with a bright smile, setting down water and handing me a menu that smelled faintly of flour and butter, the edges curled from too many hands.
“Coffee, sweetheart?” she asked, then lowered her voice. “Not that it’s as good as yours.”
I slipped off my jacket and gave her the smile she deserved for being nice to me. “Please, Mrs. Carpenter.”
“I said, call me Molly.” Then she hovered, and I blinked up at her. “Can I ask you a quick something?” That wasn’t how our script was supposed to go. She asked me if I wanted my usual, and I said “please”. That was it.
“Of course,” I said when she didn’t immediately launch into whatever she wanted to ask me.
Molly shifted her tray to one arm, giving me a look.
“Well, Jamie’s got this big project in history—something about, I don’t know, the dust wars or something?
” She winced, and I didn’t jump in to offer a solution because God knows what she meant by dust wars.
“Anyway, would it be okay if he asked you for some advice? He told me you’re into history, but he’s kind of shy. ”
He is? To me, Jamie was super confident and not at all backward in coming forward.
“He’s such a star in history,” she said with pride, “and he just wants to learn.”
“I don’t really do history at school senior level,” I said quickly, and then winced internally.
There it was again—that arrogance. Since when had I fallen out of love with the kind of history that had shaped me into the man I was today?
But I forced a smile and added, “But, sure. Tell him to bring his project in, and I’ll see if I can give him some pointers. ”
“Thank you. Your usual?”
“Please.”
“One pancake stack, with bacon, coming up, plus a slice of Kai Pie.” She hurried away to place the order, and I warred between feeling guilty about ordering breakfast for dinner and the happiness from indulging my sweet tooth.
I pulled out my phone and settled back in the hidden-away booth, scrolling through courses at North Hollow U, and researching how they were received.
The history department needed help, and a vacancy seemed to have been carved out for someone like me.
On the plus side, they had a strong Civil War history program, their academic standards were solid, and it wasn’t one of those self-important private colleges like the one I’d attended before.
Anyone who offered this post would do so on merit, without any backroom deals or family legacies. I had to cling to that. Right?
Icy droplets splattered my face as the slim shape of Wesley freaking Darkwood slid into the booth opposite me, shaking off the cold.
“Jeez, it’s freezing out there!” he announced, his cheeks pink from the wind.
He started unwrapping his long, dark coat, unwinding his scarf, tugging off his beanie, all the while rambling.
“You know it only takes one snowflake to start an avalanche, Hunter. And did you know each flake has six points, never seven? Weird, right? Especially since I told you about my lucky number. Oh! And how about us talking about the snow angel today? Total coincidence, like the universe proving me right by giving us snow.”
I didn’t move, simply stared at him. Molly came back with water and two glasses, as if she’d sided with him in assuming he was okay in the seat opposite.
“Your usual, honey?” she asked Wesley, same as she had me.
“Please, and a slice of Kai Pie.”
She was all apologetic, “I’m sorry, the last piece was just taken by Hunter.”
Wesley gave a fake, over-the-top pout, lips pushed out and eyes wide, then brightened with a sudden grin. “Bring an extra fork, and we can share, right? Two friends, one slice of heaven.”
I was beyond apoplectic. Share? My single piece of Kai’s pie? The best pie I’d ever tasted. The very idea had me gripping my glass of iced water like a weapon, outrage and disbelief bubbling inside me. How the hell did he think that was acceptable?
“What… Why are you… When…”
Wesley settled back in his seat, grasping his hair in his hands and tying it back. “You want to start that again?” he said with his usual fucking annoying smile.
“This is my table.” I finally managed and gestured around us. “There are plenty of empty tables.
“Yes, but you’d be lonely then,” he said.
“I was perfectly happy here on my—”
“Pancake stack, bacon extra crispy, and I’ll leave the bottle of syrup,” Molly interrupted as she set plates down. She turned to Wesley with a smile. “Yours will be out soon, Wes, but while I’ve got you here—can you recommend some readers for my Amy’s girl?”
“Little Susie?” Wesley asked, already softening.
“Yeah, she’s just starting to sound out words, and I’d love reading to her.”
Wesley lit up as though he’d been waiting for the question all day. “Oh, absolutely—The Cat in the Hat, Hairy Maclary, all those sing-songy rhyming stories are brilliant. Kids love the rhythm. You want me to put some aside? I’ve even got a few in the second-hand pile.”
“That would be wonderful,” she said, and he grinned and promised to set some aside. He gave away so many second-hand books that it made me wonder how he even made money.
She hurried off just as the door banged open to let in a group of teens in hockey jerseys, their laughter and chatter filling the space.
Kai Buchanan was with them, Lucas Haynes too, both managing to corral the noisy pack toward a corner table at the far side of the diner.
I noticed Jamie was with them, and he waved, and I gave him a nod.
Please don’t come over when I’m away from work.
God, my head hurt again—the same throb that had started this morning, sharper now, proof that fatigue and stress had been building toward something worse.
So much for pancakes in peace. If it wasn’t hockey groups breaking the quiet, it was Wesley, who was already rambling on about something I was half listening to and trying to tune in to.
“… so, I said yes.” Wesley leaned in, eyes sparkling.
“And you know what else, Hunter? Traditional national costumes from Norway—but I’m talking three hundred years ago.
Picture it! You in one of those long dark coats with silver clasps, a wool vest, and high boots, all stern professor turned Nordic prince.
And me, flowing linen shirt, embroidered vest, breeches tucked into boots, maybe even a fur-trimmed cape if I can borrow one from the theater group.
” His hands flew as he painted the vision.
“The two of us standing together at our stop—like we’ve walked straight out of some ancient saga. ”
I was so damn tired, head pounding, nerves frayed, and I couldn’t even think of an answer. I hadn’t had a migraine since I left my old college, but maybe overstimulation was how they started.
I forked up another bite of pancake, chewing slowly, wincing as Wesley kept right on chattering about costumes, decorations, and god knew what else.
My head was already too full—the hockey kids laughing and shouting, Wesley’s endless monologue, my future plans dangling by a thread, my old life in ruins.
Two freaking years hiding in a coffee shop I hated, pretending this was enough.
It pressed on me until my chest felt tight, and then Molly arrived with the exact same order for Wesley that I’d already had delivered.
“Is this deliberate?” I snapped at him and Molly. “Are you pranking me?”
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
I shoved too much money onto the table, stood abruptly, and fumbled with my coat in furious, uncoordinated motions. Facing my nemesis head-on, I bit out, “You can have the damn pie,” my voice flat with exhaustion, a band of pain tightening from temple to temple.
Then I walked out, leaving the warmth and noise behind me.