Chapter 7
7
HUNTER
Night one, I go psycho bitch on Dylan about dirty dishes. Night two, I whack him in the privates with a baseball bat. My instinct would be to flee to my room, hide inside, and never come back out again.
But when he asks me to talk, looking like he does now—golden hair disheveled, white shirt with a few undone buttons, tie hanging loose around his neck—he’s so mouth-watering irresistible, I can’t say no. He might be the one who got hit, and me the basher, but I’m the one left unsteady, as if the rug had been pulled out from under me.
Now that the medical emergency is over, I realize I’m wearing next to nothing. Heat creeps up my neck and face. “Do you mind if I go put on something a little more… covering before we talk?”
Dylan’s gaze flickers down my body before darting away. He clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. Sure.”
I scurry to my bedroom, heart racing. This cohabitation is going to give me premature gray hair. I grab a strapless bra and fasten it over my PJ tank top for damage control—no time for finesse—and cover the fashion crime with an oversized T-shirt. As I return to the living room, I make a silent vow to not let my emotions get in the way of me acting like a normal, half-decent human being and be cool with Dylan.
He’s still on the couch, frozen peas balanced precariously on his lap. He looks up as I approach, a crooked smile playing on his lips. “Better?”
I nod, perching on the edge of the seat cushion as far from him as possible. “I should be the one to ask you that.”
“Peas are working magic.” He scrunches up his face in that cute half-frown that knocks me off my feet every single time. “But aren’t they going to go bad?”
“Even if they don’t, I’m not cooking crotch peas.”
“Hey, crotch-to-table could be a new trend.”
“The food critics would go bananas.”
Dylan chuckles, then winces. “Oof, laughing still hurts a bit.” He shifts the peas, his expression turning more serious.
I tense up, bracing myself for the awkward conversation I’ve been dreading since dish-gate.
“About last night.” He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to… you know, make a mess of your space or anything. And I know I outdid myself tonight going for full-scale property damage, but hey, at least I’m setting the bar so low, any future disaster will seem mild in comparison.”
My inner groan is so loud I fear he might still hear it. “No, Dylan. I should apologize. I overreacted about the dishes, and then tonight… I basically attacked you. I’m really sorry.”
The crooked grin is back, causing all kinds of inappropriate reactions in my internal organs. “Hey, no harm done. Well, maybe a little harm.” He gestures to the frozen peas. “But I’ll survive.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “I promise I’m not usually this neurotic. Or violent.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he teases, eyes twinkling. “You seem pretty dangerous to me. Should I wear a cup around the apartment?”
I fiddle with the ribbed neckline of my T-shirt, my fingers twisting the fabric as I look everywhere, the floor, the couch—not the peas —but at him. “We should invest in glow-in-the-dark light switches.”
“Uh-huh, so we can have nice things.”
“Sure.” I smile because how can I not. “We’ll get them with little glowing basketballs for you.”
“Great, then I’ll stop running into trouble.” He keeps his eyes on me, unblinking.
This time, I can’t look away; I drift in the deep blues and greens of his irises as we fall into a silence that if it isn’t exactly comfortable, at least is no longer tense.
Dylan flicks at the condensation forming on the bag of peas, like icing his crotch is just another Monday night activity. “What did I even break? Can I replace it?”
“It was just a vase. Rowena used to fill it with flowers.”
“Did you like the flowers?”
“I mean, sure, they were nice. But then they all just died in a few days.”
“Sure I can’t buy another one for you?”
I shake my head. “No need.”
Dylan stands, still holding the bag of peas and keeping the weight off his left leg on his heel, the bandaged part of the foot raised. “Same time tomorrow?”
I snort, crossing my arms. “If you survive the night.”
“I’ll see you in the morning, Brolin.” Dylan tilts his head. “Unless you’re always up and out of the house at the crack of dawn?”
I can read between the lines of what he’s not asking—if I was avoiding him this morning? But I’m not ready to admit that I was. Because then he’d ask me why, and I would have to explain to him things I can’t say. Things no one knows. Things that are buried so deep inside me, sometimes even I can pretend they’re not there.
I stand from the couch as well. “I’m on a new, massive project. So, yeah, I might have longer hours for a while.”
Our gazes meet again and hold. If he smells my bullshit, he doesn’t call me out on it.
For a wild instant, I wish that he would. That this boat I’ve been drifting on for eleven years finally got rocked.
Instead, Dylan gives a slight nod, accepting my answer. “Goodnight, Brolin.”
“Night, Thompson.”
I watch Dylan limp down the hallway and wait until his bedroom door clicks shut to release a long, shaky exhale.
I pad back to my room, sagging on the bed with too much adrenaline flooding my system to fall asleep right away. What time is it even?
The digital clock on my nightstand reads 1.30a.m.
A horrible thought hits me in response: why was Dylan returning home so late? Long day at work, or was he coming back from seeing his girlfriend? Did I whack him in his post-coitus willy?
My inner villain lets out an evil laugh. I hope I’ve broken it and that they can’t have sex for at least a month. But unfortunately, it’s my tragic inner princess who gets the last word as unwanted mental images of Dylan making love with a faceless (but impossibly gorgeous) woman float before my eyes.
Flopping onto my bed, I grab a pillow and press it over my face, muffling a frustrated groan.
And the worst part?
Now I’ll have to set the alarm to 5a.m. every day and pretend to be a fucking morning person indefinitely.