Chapter 35
35
HUNTER
The muffled notes of “Don’t Blame Me” greet me as I trudge up to my apartment door, exhausted from another late night at the office. I frown, pausing with my keys in hand. Were Rowena and Nina coming over tonight and I spaced it? Who else would be listening to Reputation ?
I unlock the door and step inside—and my jaw nearly hits the floor at the sight that greets me. Dylan is humming in time to the music, his broad shoulders swaying as he energetically mops the floor. He’s wearing navy basketball shorts that hug his muscular thighs and a sleeveless gray hoodie with armholes so large they showcase his sculpted arms and offer a tantalizing peek of the tight muscles along his ribs. Each push of the mop makes his biceps and triceps ripple under his tanned skin. It’s mortifying how stunning I find him.
On top of that, he’s wearing a blue New York Knicks cap. Backward. Good heavens. Backward baseball caps are irresistibly sexy on a man. Paired with the way his blond hair curls at the nape of his neck… A brief pulse of heat thrums low in my stomach and my mind goes blank. The sight of him cleaning our apartment while singing Taylor Swift is apparently the domestic sex fantasy I never knew I desperately needed.
Wait, why is he even wearing a cap indoors? What on earth is going on with him?
I look away, tossing my keys into the bowl at the entrance, and notice a new vase, filled with violets, where the one he broke used to be. I’m about to ask him about it, but when I glance up again, I catch him twirling the mop and using it as a mock mic stand to belt out the high note. That’s it. If this performance goes on any longer, I might lose my last marble. I clear my throat, cutting the show short. “Hey,” I manage, but my voice comes out unnaturally high-pitched. Apparently, my vocal cords haven’t quite recovered from the visual ambush of Dylan’s biceps.
He turns at the sound, his face lighting up with an easy, wide smile, the kind that crinkles the corners of his bright eyes. “Brolin, you’re home.”
I lose a few feet of intestines as they melt at his enthusiastic greeting, warmth rushing to my core. The fatigue from my long day slaving over the North Shore project dissolves in the glow of his smile.
“Yeah, finally,” I reply, unable to keep from grinning back at him. “It’s been a beast of a day, but I’m glad to be home. And at least the week is over.” I point at the vase. “New flowers?”
Dylan props the mop against the couch and walks over, his tall frame eating up the distance in a few long strides. “You said you didn’t like flowers that die, so I got you a plant. It blooms year-round.”
“T-thanks?”
“It’s nothing.” He leans against the wall, and I’m tempted to touch him just to confirm he’s real and not a government experiment in male perfection. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No, I’m starving.”
“Perfect. I was thinking I could make a quick run to that taco place around the corner you love.” He definitely escaped from a top-secret research facility where they engineer men to ensure no one around them makes sensible choices. “Carne asada with extra guac and a Pineapple Jarritos, right?”
I’m surprised he memorized my order. “Tacos sound perfect.”
“Great. Let me finish here and I’ll head out.”
For a second, I’m tempted to ask him to change before going out, you know, to prevent women from swooning and causing pedestrian pile-ups on the curbs. The NY emergency services are already overloaded enough.
But as my gaze travels over his athletic form again—the sleeveless hoodie highlighting his ripped physique, how that damn backward cap makes him look both boyish and hot as sin—I realize it wouldn’t matter what he wears. Dylan could don a paper sack and women would still faint in the streets.
I keep my mouth shut and watch as he retrieves the mop and resumes cleaning and dancing spontaneously to “Shake It Off” as the song changes. Is he a secret Swiftie?
I flee to the bathroom because if I have to witness one more unintentionally sexy thing, my ovaries will explode.
The shower does little to calm the current of electricity zinging through my veins. I tilt my head back and close my eyes under the spray of hot water. But even with my lids shut, I see Dylan. How his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The flex of his muscles as he moved. The way he shook his booty to the music that I didn’t find as ridiculous as I should have.
I shut off the water and wrap myself in a fluffy towel. Back in my room, I pull out the shortest pair of shorts I own, holding them up with a wry smile. They’re more denim underwear than actual pants.
All week, I’ve been parading around the apartment in increasingly skimpy outfits—shorty-shorts, off-the-shoulder tops, messy buns. And… nada. No reaction from Dylan beyond his usual friendly smiles. It’s like trying to seduce a golden retriever. A hot, oblivious golden retriever.
Tugging on the shorts, I figure if these don’t get a rise out of him, nothing will. I twist my damp hair up into his favorite messy bun, then stop. With my neck already twinging in protest, I let my hair fall loose instead, the wet strands cool against my bare shoulders.
For my top, I bypass my remaining off-the-shoulder options and go straight for the nuclear option—the oversized Blue Devils shirt Dylan lent me when I got soaked by the sprinklers at his parents’ house. Turns out I didn’t even have to steal one of his basketball jerseys; he’s already given it to me.
Slipping the worn cotton over my head, I catch a faint whiff of Dylan’s scent still clinging to the fabric. Clean and crisp with a hint of something manly. The smell wraps around me like an embrace, and my eyes flutter closed. Gosh, the atomic plan has already backfired and is short-circuiting my brain instead of his. I let the shirt go and push it as far from my nose as possible.
I check myself in the mirror before going back out. The hem of the shirt skims my thighs, covering my shorts—kind of counterproductive. I knot the excess at my waist, letting a slice of skin peek out. It’s a bold move. I’m literally putting all my skin in the game.
Time to see if Dylan is ready to play ball.
When I head back into the living space, Dylan is unloading the takeout boxes onto the kitchen counter. The scent of cilantro, lime, and spices wraps around me, but his presence makes the air thicker than all the spices. The baseball cap has come off, but now his hair is all messy and tousled, sticking up in a way that suggests he’s run his hands through it too many times and that makes Dylan even more devastatingly sexy.
He lifts his head and takes me in, giving me the slowest of once-overs. There is a new boldness in the way he looks at me, being deliberate and unapologetic about it in a way that makes my skin slow-fry under that heated stare.
Dylan cocks his head. “Is that my shirt?”
I nod, playing it cool. “I told you it was comfy and that I might not give it back.”
He holds my gaze a little longer than is comfortable, then says, “Nice shorts.”
His voice is casual, but heat simmers each word, making my knees turn to jelly. I glance down at my exposed legs, suddenly aware of how much skin is on display. When I look back up, Dylan’s eyes are still on me, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. That’s new.
We bring the tacos to the couch, and Dylan takes control of the remote. I expect him to put on something boring like the news or sports, but after zapping through the channels for a while, he logs onto a subscription service and Legally Blonde begins to play.
A little dazed, I ask, “You like this movie?”
Dylan shrugs. “Nina’s made me watch it so many times, it’s grown on me.”
I stuff my mouth with taco because otherwise, I might say something stupid like, Will you please marry me? or, Can I bear all your children ? The taco is delicious—crispy, savory, everything I love—but the taste is a blur in the background compared to the presence of Dylan next to me.
As the opening credits roll, I sneak a glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s slouched back against the cushions, long legs stretched out in front of him, looking utterly relaxed. Acting like this is a normal Friday night for us, hanging out and watching rom-coms together.
But it’s not normal, not even close. Because I’m sitting here in his clothes, the ghost of his scent surrounding me, hyper-aware of every single inch between us.
I shove another bite of taco into my mouth, forcing myself to focus on the screen. But with Dylan’s solid warmth radiating beside me and the memory of how he looked at me earlier seared into my brain, concentrating on a movie is impossible.
But the story eventually wins me over and I get absorbed into the shenanigans of Elle Woods and her law-school drama. Unfortunately, the respite is short-lived because as we finish eating, Dylan clears the plates, and when he comes back, I’m on high alert.
He looks at me sideways. “You look tense, Hunt.”
I shrivel under the scrutiny. When he concentrates all his focus on me like that, my walls become invisible and I wonder if he can see straight into the part of me that’s been quietly churning all evening. I force a smile, saying, “Work has been intense. Just a little neck pain.”
I stretch my head from side to side as if to demonstrate how easily the problem can be solved.
“Neck pain? We can’t have that.” His voice is low and smooth and sends a ripple of tension straight through me. “Do you want me to work out those knots for you?”
I stammer, “A-are you sure you know w-what you’re doing? You could make it worse.”
He grins at me, all confidence. “I’m a pro masseuse. Our sports massage therapist back in college taught me all the tricks.” He wiggles his fingers at me.
The thought of Dylan touching me has my pulse skyrocketing, and I bite my lip, unsure if I’ll survive a massage from him. “Okay, then.”
I turn sideways, expecting us to sit side by side for the massage, but Dylan climbs onto the couch and slides behind me, placing me firmly between his powerful thighs.
His legs are warm and solid, pressing against me on both sides, and the sudden proximity sends a jolt of awareness through my entire body. My hair is still loose after the shower, for drying, but now Dylan brushes it aside, collecting it up. His fingers sliding through my hair send goosebumps racing across my skin as sensation explodes over my upper body.
“Do you have a hair tie?” His breath tickles the side of my neck.
Barely able to form coherent thoughts, I fumble to pull one off my wrist and hand it to him. He gathers my hair higher, his fingers grazing my scalp, and ties it atop my head. It might be the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me.
At least until he leans in, his lips nearly brushing my ear, and murmurs, “The massage might work better if the shirt is loose. Is it okay if I unknot it?”
“Mm-hmm,” is all I can manage in response.
Dylan’s hands sneak to the front of my borrowed shirt, his knuckles skimming my ribs as he unties the knot. The brush of his fingers against my stomach turns my veins into faulty wires, electrocuting me from the inside out. I focus all my energy on keeping myself upright and not fully collapsing back against his muscular chest.
Then his warm hands drop onto my shoulders, and I lose control of my mind and limbs, melting into his touch. The heat of his palms spreads through my skin, sinking deep into my muscles, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound. Our bodies are touching in so many places, and it’s even more electrifying. At this rate, I could solve the energy crisis all by myself.
“What’s more stressful, work or your love life, with all those dates you’ve been going on?” Dylan teases as his magic fingers knead the tense muscles at the base of my neck.
I barely have enough brain cells left to say, “I’ve given up online dating. I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.”
My spine is too occupied melting under the contact of his hands to lock in place as I wait for his response. Otherwise, it would’ve gone ramrod straight.
And, oh, if he doesn’t make me wait for an eternity. A long, loooooong pause follows, and then Dylan says, “Good to know,” without adding anything, and still working magic with his hands on my shoulders.
I wonder what he means by that. Good to know because after having to save me from one of those disastrous dates, he hopes I have more sense? Or good to know because this massage is foreplay and next, he’ll grab my hair by the knot he’s made, tilt my head backward, and kiss me senseless?
I wish I had the guts to ask. But more than anything, as his fingers press deeper, I wish with all my being that he’d do something, make a move, shove me back, roll on top of me, take me right on this couch. But he doesn’t. He keeps massaging me, loosening my muscles, and unraveling my entire soul one stroke at a time.
Dylan stops only when the closing credits roll on the TV, and I realize that I’ve missed most of the movie.
And then, just like that, Dylan slips up from behind me and tells me it’s getting late and we should go to sleep. The sudden lack of his warmth makes me feel oddly exposed as if a protective shield has been taken away. He wishes me goodnight and walks down the hall, leaving me in a state of utter bewilderment.
I stare after him, my heart still racing, wondering how I can feel so utterly connected to him and uncertain at the same time. I listen as he uses the bathroom and, once I’m sure he’s safely tucked away in his room, I lie down on the couch and start randomly punching and kicking the cushions because what was that?
A cocktail of adrenaline and frustration bubbles up in my hands, at my temples, and in the hollow of my throat, making my limbs restless. I fight to keep from screaming into the nearest pillow. How could he touch me the way he did and then walk away like it was nothing? The confusion swirling inside me builds to a point where I’m ready to burst.
All the touching, the massaging, and then goodnight ? My skin still tingles, every nerve on fire from his hands, and now he’s just… gone?
Dylan’s door opens again. I quickly compose myself, stopping the kicking and punching, and pulling myself back into an upright position as he reappears in the living room, holding a paper bag.
“I forgot to give you something.” He dangles the bag from his long fingers I’m now all too familiar with.
My pulse jumps the instant I see him, my earlier frustration momentarily forgotten, replaced by curiosity and—a dangerous hope. He walks to the couch and sets himself between my legs before squatting down, one hand casually draped over my lower thigh, the other holding the bag up for me. The heat of his hand resting on my thigh is a distraction; it makes it hard to focus on anything else but the warm weight of his fingers over my bare flesh.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the bag from him.
We stare at each other intensely, the space between our mouths the smallest it’s ever been.
He jerks his chin at the bag. “Are you not going to look inside?”
The intensity of his gaze makes the air in my lungs burn as my fingers tighten around the paper, crunching it. I don’t want to break eye contact, but what choice do I have? I nod and look inside where I find a romance book from one of my favorite authors, but it’s not any book; it’s a special edition with sprayed edges.
My hands tremble as I pull it out, the shiny cover catching the light. “How did you know I liked this author?” I snap my head back up to meet his gaze.
Dylan shrugs, standing up. “Isn’t this the one that got ruined at my parents’ house? You said you were looking forward to reading it. I saw it in a bookshop window and thought of you.”
The rasp in his voice contrasts with the way my chest tightens at the casualness of his explanation as if it wasn’t the most thoughtful, heart-flipping thing anyone’s done for me. I have no words; I’m floored. I’m torn between wanting to jump up and hug him or grab him by that ridiculously sexy hoodie and kiss him until he forgets his name.
Instead, I simply say, “Thank you, Dylan. This is so thoughtful of you.”
He grins, that boyish charm of his in full force. “It’s no problem, Hunt. But don’t stay up all night reading, okay?” He punctuates his words with a wink that sends another ripple of electricity straight through me.
I manage a small smile, hoping he can’t see how a simple book and wink can unearth me. “I’ll try my best,” I quip to match his playful tone despite the butterflies wreaking havoc in my stomach.
Dylan chuckles, giving me one last heart-stopping smile before he turns and heads back to his room. As soon as his door clicks shut, I collapse on the couch once more, the fancy paperback hugged to my chest.
I stare up at the ceiling, thinking it won’t be a book that’ll keep me up tonight.