4. Hunter
Four
Hunter
A ll I can say is thank god for all that Mountain Rescue training, because my first aid supplies are stocked. Honestly, there are preparations in this cabin for any accident or disaster you can think of, and I’ve never been more grateful for my weird prepper inclinations than I am right now.
“Doing okay out there?” I call, placing another roll of fresh bandages on the tray I’m filling up. It’s already laden with antiseptic wipes, numbing cream, painkillers, and a granola bar for that much needed sugar hit. The bulky first aid kit is tucked under my arm, along with a big bottle of water.
No answer. I pause, straining to hear, but there’s still no reply.
“Brooke?”
Is she okay?
Gritting my teeth, I grab a handful of extra band aids and toss them onto the tray, then march back out to the warm spring sunshine.
Brooke is stretched out on my wicker sofa, snoozing peacefully. Her ankle is propped up, and her brown hair splays out over the sofa cushions, shining chestnut in the sun. Her pink lips are parted. Her chest rises and falls with each breath.
I stand there for way, way too fucking long.
Just staring.
Wanting.
Absorbing every damn detail of this woman; each faint freckle on the bridge of her nose and glossy strand of her hair. The perfect curves beneath her t-shirt and leggings, and the softness of her skin.
Christ, Brooke looks like she would feel like satin beneath my fingertips. Smooth and warm and addictive. Would she gasp for me? Would she moan?
Stop.
See, it’s that kind of thinking that chased me all the way up into these peaks, turning me into a recluse before I even hit thirty. Brooke is my best friend’s little sister, for god’s sake. A good man would never think of her that way.
And Brooke deserves a good man. She deserves the best, always.
“Brooke.” My throat is tight, and I cough to clear it. “Wake up, sweetheart. I need to fix up your bumps and bruises.”
She huffs and mutters something in her sleep, shifting against the sun-warmed cushions. Fighting a smile, I set the tray down and kneel at her side.
“Okay. Have it your way.”
My fingers pluck at her boot laces, trying to loosen the crazy-tight knot she tied. They’re double, triple knotted, and I squint and curse as I work the laces free.
A critter nearby squeaks and chatters in its tree, and the breeze tugs at my collar.
After a while, my sleepy patient grumbles something and reaches out to poke my shoulder. It’s the briefest, most innocent of touches, but the spot where she prodded me tingles beneath my shirt.
More . I always want more.
“Hunter. What are you doing?”
She sounds out of it. Her words have that blurry, half asleep quality of someone who’s hovering between wakefulness and passing out again.
“Loosening your boot,” I tell her. “Your ankle is swelling, and you’ll be more comfortable this way.”
Brooke gusts out a long, tired sigh, then prods me again. This time, her hand stays close, gripping a fistful of my shirt and dangling there against my chest. The warmth of her seeps through the fabric into my skin.
“You’re taking ages.”
I grin. It feels like a foreign expression on my face, even though I swear I used to laugh and joke around a lot. Guess I’ve been more solemn since taking to the woods.
“Well, you locked your boot up tighter than Fort Knox, Brookeworm.”
A dreamy smile passes over her face, and her knuckles brush my chest through the flannel. Her eyes are still closed, and she looks so peaceful that it makes my stomach ache.
“You called me that name again.”
Shit. “Sorry.”
It’s an old habit, but I’d better break it fast. The last thing I ever wanted to do was make Brooke feel like I was teasing her in a bad way. Christ, even thinking about her wondering that, trying to figure out if I was being mean to her when she was always so sweet, so perfect, makes me want to slam my head against the deck railing.
“Don’t be sorry,” she murmurs. “I like it.”
Oh yeah? “A few minutes ago you weren’t so sure.”
Finally, the knot comes loose and I draw on the laces, letting off the pressure on her swelling foot. Brooke makes a small, disgruntled noise and finally opens her eyes, glancing first at her undone boot and then at me. Those hazel irises are all the shades of the forest blurred together.
“Well, now I know for sure it was a cute nickname.” Brooke is still gripping my shirt, that weight tugging lightly on my shoulder. “So I like it after all.”
Honestly, I can’t believe she ever doubted it. That sliver of uncertainty from her makes me feel like such an ass, and she must see the self loathing slide across my face, because Brooke frowns and sits up.
“Hunter. Hey.”
“We should take this boot off altogether.” I move gingerly, sliding the boot free as carefully as I can, but Brooke still hisses and presses her lips together when it jostles her foot. And isn’t that the whole damn problem?
Even when I mean well, even when I try to be a good man, I still hurt this girl. Joking around and making her doubt herself. Tending to her wounds and causing more pain. I’m helpless to it. So fucking fallible.
“Woah.” Brooke whistles when she sees the full damage on her ankle for the first time: the swollen, bruised mess already straining against her sock. I peel that off too, frowning when the back of it comes away blood-specked. What the hell? The sock drops to the deck, and I turn to a guilty-looking Brooke.
“How many secret wounds are you nursing, woman?”
She bites her lip. “That depends. Are we counting the blisters on my heels as two separate injuries?”
“ Brooke .”
She bursts out laughing and finally lets go of my shirt. As soon as the weight of her hand is gone, I miss it.
“Relax.” She starts unlacing the other boot—managing it way quicker with those nimble little fingers. “These are new boots, that’s all. I should’ve broken them in before going on an hours-long hike. It’s on me.”
Maybe so, but knowing that she’s been hurt even worse than I realized all this time makes the blood rush in my ears. Hell, knowing that her skin is broken at all, knowing that Brooke has so much as a single tiny bruise on her body, makes me want to beat my chest and roar at the trees. I feel so fucking primal right now.
This is it.
I’m losing my mind.
“Earth to Hunter.” A delicate hand waves in front of my face, and I blink and come back to the present. Brooke has kicked off her second boot and peeled off another blood-specked sock, and now she’s peering at my first aid kit and extra tray of supplies where they rest beside me on the deck. The sunshine is so dazzling and golden, it makes the labels on things hard to read.
“Are those antiseptic wipes? Can I have some?”
I nod and pass her a few, not trusting myself to speak.
Because of course she can have them—everything I own, everything I am, is for this girl. She just doesn’t know it because, you know, I ran away to the wilderness the second I realized that fact.
If I’d stuck around, is there any chance that Brooke would have come to want me too? That she’d have seen me as anything other than a creep? Or would I always have been her older brother’s best friend—the guy who had no business wanting her that way?
“I’ll do that,” I say gruffly, plucking the wipes from her hand when Brooke struggles with the packet. “You deal with this.”
She snorts when I pass her the granola bar, but starts peeling it open with no problems. “Are you sure? I’m not trained.”
And yeah, it feels good taking care of Brooke. Feels good tending to her wounds and joking around on the deck; feeding her that granola bar and hearing her soft laugh. It’s almost like old times.
But even so, dread pools cold and heavy in my gut. Because I’m sure about one thing, surer than I’ve ever been in my life: once Brooke leaves, once I’m here alone once more, this cabin will be so fucking lonely.