Chapter 17
Hunter
The laptop camera framed me too closely; an angle that made my face look more like a mugshot than a potential faculty member. I’d propped the thing up on a pile of books to make it halfway respectable, but the lighting in my apartment was never going to scream hire this man, he’s tenure material.
Three faces appeared in the little boxes on my screen: Dean Margaret Worthing, immaculately put together in a navy suit and pearls; Dr. Charles Hatherleigh, head of the department, with the kind of steepled fingers that screamed I hold power here; and Dr. Felicia Park, a younger professor whose smile looked genuine although she kept glancing at her notes.
“Dr. McCoy, thank you for joining us on a Sunday morning,” the dean began, her tone brisk, clipped. “We like to see who’s committed enough to show up at odd hours. Academia doesn’t stop at five o’clock.”
A test. It had to be. “Of course,” I said smoothly. In fact, I’d spent the last two nights having to convince myself this wasn’t insane scheduling. Added to which, I had to make my excuses not to stay overnight with Wesley, and even though he’d been cool with it, I felt all the guilt.
I hadn’t told him about this interview.
I wanted our idyllic Christmas romance to last.
Dr. Hatherleigh cleared his throat. “We’ve reviewed your dossier. Two monographs, a dozen articles and invited lectures. Impressive. Sponsorship investment could be higher, but still, it’s a level we can accept as a starting point.”
“Thank you,” I said, keeping my voice level. My chest tightened—praise that felt like a prelude to something sharper.
Dr. Park leaned forward. “Can you tell us more about your current research focus? Particularly, how would it integrate with our migration studies initiative?”
That part I could handle. I launched into my work on movement patterns in the Early Republic, examining how families shifted westward after the Revolution and how this reshaped political culture.
For a few minutes, I almost forgot I was being judged.
I brought in examples from the Civil War—how westward migration affected both Union and Confederate economies, when the dean cut in halfway through.
“Your application suggests you are looking for tenure?” she asked abruptly.
“I am.”
“How important is it to you?”
The question landed like a punch. “Important,” I admitted. “Tenure means stability. A foundation. The chance to build something lasting for students.”
“Good,” she said, her smile thin. “Because here, tenure isn’t given lightly. It could be five, even ten years, before you’re considered. We expect commitment. Loyalty.”
Five to ten years—my stomach dipped. That wasn’t stability—that was limbo.
Dr. Hatherleigh steepled his fingers tighter. “This college prides itself on tradition. We’re generously supported by our alumni. In fact, one of our tenured professors in criminology is not only a graduate but also the great-grandson of one of our founders. We nurture legacy here.”
On the surface, it sounded like pride. Underneath, to me, it sounded like money. Influence. The kind of politics that had buried me at Ashcroft.
“That’s… remarkable,” I managed, though my tone was flatter than I intended.
Dr. Park jumped back in, trying to soften it.
“What excites us about you, Dr. McCoy, is your energy for teaching and the potential funding you might attract from companies investing in your ideas. Your references praised your ability to connect with students. Can you describe how you’d see yourself fitting into our culture? ”
Fitting in. My mind went blank. Wishing Tree’s found-family chaos flashed into my thoughts—Wesley telling wild stories, kids lighting up under history club debates, cocoa and laughter spilling into my nights. Did I fit here? Or did I fit there?
I cleared my throat. “I believe history matters most when it connects past choices to present consequences. If that’s your culture, then I’ll fit.”
The dean smiled, sharp as glass. “We’ll be in touch soon. Thank you for your time, Dr. McCoy.”
The call ended with a click, leaving me staring at my reflection in the black screen. My tie was crooked, my shoulders tight, my mouth drawn in a grim line.
LA was prestigious. LA was secure—someday. LA was everything I’d told myself I wanted.
So why did it feel like a door I wasn’t sure I wanted to walk through?
I shut the laptop with more force than necessary and shoved back from the desk. My apartment felt too small, the air too stale, so I paced. Back and forth, heel to toe across the warped floorboards, the same agitation and worry eating me that I’d had during my last months at Ashcroft.
Déjà vu crept over me, heavy and suffocating. Committees smiled while they gutted me in whispers. Expectations stacked like sandbags on my chest. The endless waiting for someone else to decide if I was worthy of permanence, depending on how much money I attracted to the college.
I raked a hand through my hair. Five to ten years. A maybe-tenure dangling like a carrot. Another half-decade of proving myself, again and again, to people who already had their legacies sewn into the fabric of the place.
My phone sat on the counter, screen black now but humming with the weight of that flagged email. Instinct said see Wes. His voice, his chaos, the way he made everything feel less impossible—God, I wanted that.
But what would I say? Hey, I haven’t told you this, but I had an interview with the university I always wanted, and I’m chasing a life that doesn’t include you, doesn’t include Wishing Tree, but could you please listen to my angsting anyway?
No. I couldn’t do that to him. Not when I’d seen the way his face softened every time he looked at his store, at those kids, at the lantern glowing in the center. This town was his anchor. And I was restless and pretending I could stay.
I stopped at the window, staring out at Main Street, muffled in snow. Wes was probably next door, reading some impossible YA fantasy, cocoa in hand, bobble hat discarded on the sofa, waiting to open the store for any tourist trade.
For a moment, the ache in my chest was so sharp I had to grip the sill to steady myself.
LA was everything I’d told myself I wanted. So why did a career closer to Wishing Tree feel like everything I needed?
No.
This wasn’t all about Wishing Tree.
It was Wes.
The day was long, even if it was Sunday and the coffee shop closed at three, I wasn’t working on my own, Jamie was at one end of the counter and I was the other, and we barely spoke to each other with a satisfying and steady stream of tourists, plus the regulars.
When I went up to my apartment, I was tired, and it didn’t help that I couldn’t shake the weight of LA’s call—the dean’s thin smile, the steepled fingers, the talk of “legacy.” I shoved my coat on before I could talk myself out of it and crossed the alley.
I had no excuse lined up to see Wes, but I knocked anyway.
He opened the door as if he’d been standing there, all bundled up in a coat—a real one, not a cloak this time— blinked at me, then grinned as if I was exactly the person he’d been expecting.
“Perfect timing. I was about to come and get you to go for a walk.”
I frowned. “In the snow?”
“Especially in the snow. Come on, grump. You need it more than I do.”
We went back to my place, didn’t stop for kissing much to my disappointment, and dressed warmly.
I let him tug me into the evening, our boots crunching on the fresh powder, my bad mood trailing behind like a stubborn shadow.
We ended up in the center of town, where The Wishing Tree glowed at the heart of the square, ribbons already fluttering in the cold air.
Wes pressed a strip of red silk into my glove with a card and a pen.
“Your turn to wish,” he said.
“I don’t—”
“No arguments. Everyone in Wishing Tree makes at least one.”
I stared at the blank card as though it might bite me.
Wes didn’t push, just wrote something and then tied his own with quick fingers.
I scribbled something in the dark and knotted it beside his.
The street light turned the silk almost golden.
I’d wished for a future I wasn’t ready to decide on, but I couldn’t stop myself from making a wish for the man I would be leaving behind.
We ambled past the pond, where fairy lights rimmed the boards and tourists, young and old, shrieked in chaotic joy. A teenager hit the ice hard, scrambled up laughing, his friends wheeling around to haul him back into motion.
“Why does everyone else make skating look easy?” Wes muttered, linking his arm through mine.
I huffed out a laugh. “Maybe if we practiced…”
Wesley fake shuddered. “Not happening.”
Further down, towards the school, a crooked row of snowmen lined the path, each one more absurd than the last—one in sunglasses, one with a carrot nose the size of a shovel handle, one with a scarf wound six times around its lopsided head.
Wes stopped, delighted. “Okay, this is art.”
Before I could argue, he yanked me into place beside him, pulled out his phone, and snapped a picture with the whole ridiculous army behind us. He looked at the screen, grinned, and shoved it into his pocket like a treasure.
I let him.
We ended up outside The Gift Emporium, where Bailey’s decorations filled the window in dazzling detail.
According to the information board in the bottom left-hand corner, this year’s theme was Stories in Snow—silhouettes in silver strung through frosted branches and crystal stars.
Castles and dragons, all glowing with backlit magic.
Wes pressed close to the glass, his breath fogging a small circle as he leaned in. “God, he outdid himself this year.”
I didn’t look at the window. I looked at Wes—wide-eyed with wonder, reflected light in his gaze, snowflakes caught in his hair. He belonged here, every inch of him.
And for the second time that day, my chest ached so hard I had to grip something—this time the back of his gloved hand. He started, then threaded his fingers through mine without a word, and the tightness in my chest eased.
We reached the alley behind our stores, still laughing, still linked arm in arm. And then he gasped and dropped my hand.
“Oh my god!” he exclaimed, voice breaking on the word. “Ru!”
My gut tightened. Someone was crouched on the back step to his place, huddled into a coat, shivering in the shadows.
I automatically stepped closer, angling myself between Wes and the figure.
Was this some guy out to hurt him? And why was my first instinct to think of danger?
This wasn’t a dragon, and I wasn’t a hero.
We stood in the dark a beat too long until Wes stepped close to my door and waved at the auto light, flooding the alley with a dull glow. That was when I got my first look at whoever this Ru was.
Wesley went to a crouch, and the man looked up, red-eyed, dark hair curling around his face. “Wes. I’m so fucking cold.”
Wesley stood, trying to help Ru stand, but he was bigger than Wesley and clearly not well, so I went in to assist. Between us, we got him inside the bookstore and sat him on the first sofa we came to.
The man was shivering badly, and for a moment I hovered, unsure what to do, confusion twisting in my chest. Was I supposed to help, to comfort, to question?
Before I could decide, Wes kicked into survival mode.
He stripped Ru of his coat, flicked on a small heater, and then wrapped one of his colorful blankets around Ru’s shoulders.
“What happened?” Wesley asked gently.
I got my first real look at this oddly named Ru. It was obvious this was a younger, but taller and wider version of Wesley. They had to be related. My mind skittered with questions—was this one of the brothers who’d caused Wesley pain? Did I need to get angry? Or worse, call for paramedics?
With shivering and stutters, Ru whispered, “I… I had no-nowhere to go,” Ru began, voice trembling. “I hitched here.”
“That’s so dangerous!” Wes was sharp with Ru, who winced and ducked his head, “Why didn’t you call me?”
Ru coughed and shivered some more, and Wesley pulled him into a close hug. I stood awkwardly nearby, confused whether I should be in fight or support mode before Ru’s voice cracked and he began to cry. Was I intruding on something I didn’t understand?
“I like w-women, and m-men, Wes.”
And all Wesley could say, over and over, was, “It’s okay, Ru, it’s okay.”
He threw me a glance that spoke volumes, and I nodded, then headed upstairs to Wes’s kitchen and made teas and coffees and grabbed cookies and brought everything down on a tray.
Wes had already wrapped him in another blanket and helped him out of damp jeans, tucking a third around him with brisk efficiency.
“Do we need to call 911?” I asked softly.
“Not yet,” Wes said.
“I’m o-okay,” Ru said at the same time.
“Okay then, well... the tea isn’t too hot; it should warm you from the inside,” I murmured.
Ru took it with shaky hands, Wesley supporting him, and then inserting himself on the sofa and pulling the man close.
“Th-tha-thank you,” Ru managed to say to me, and snuggled down into Wesley’s hold, the tea tipping dangerously close to spilling before Wes rescued it.
“This is Hunter, he’s…” He glanced at me, probably unsure what label to give me. I was his, and that was the end of it.
I think.
“…he owns the coffee shop next door.
“Hi,” I said with a wave, and Ru managed a shaky smile.
Then Wes turned to me. “And this is my little brother, Rupert.”