6. Hunter
Six
Hunter
O nce I’ve kissed Brooke for the first time, once we’ve well and truly crossed that line, all bets are off. She may be my best friend’s little sister, she may be way off limits, but like she pointed out, Jake is not here and Brooke is a grown ass woman.
A grown woman who parts her lips and sighs when I kiss her, crowding her back against the wicker sofa. A woman who wraps both arms around my neck and clings on for dear life, like she’s scared I might change my mind and end the kiss early.
No fear.
Not even a lightning bolt could stop me now. Nor a wildfire raging over the mountainside. Certainly not the quiet voice in my head that says this is a bad idea, and I’m gonna regret it once I’m alone in my cabin again.
“Oh,” Brooke says, “my god,” fitting the words between frantic kisses. “Why haven’t we— mph —been doing this for years?”
Because she was a kid and then a teenager and I was so much older. Because I obviously never looked at her with anything beyond fond protectiveness back then.
And because by the time I finally saw Brooke as an adult in that grocery store parking lot, I was so used to thinking of her as Jake’s little sister that the sudden rush of attraction made me feel like a complete monster. Honestly, I still haven’t gotten this all squared away in my brain.
Yes, Brooke is an adult.
Yes, she’s free to kiss whoever she likes.
No, there’s no reason that shouldn’t be me.
And yet…
“You’re sure about this?” I murmur, trailing open-mouthed kisses down Brooke’s bare throat. For the record, my hunch was right before: she feels like satin to touch. So perfect and soft. Brooke shivers and tilts her head to one side, giving me better access, while her hands yank my shoulders closer. My plea is muffled against her skin. “Brooke. Hey. Listen. Are you sure?”
“Yes ,” she hisses, clawing her fingernails down my back through my shirt. My skin prickles in ten hot lines, and my back muscles twitch, every part of me so sensitive to her touch. Arousal twists in my gut as I chase her mouth down again for another deep, messy kiss.
The breathless sounds she makes.
Her sweet taste.
The soft tickle of her hair where a lock has snaked inside the collar of my shirt.
I’m fucking ruined.
Brooke.
Some man someday is going to make her happy. He’ll get to bring her coffee in the morning and give her his own silly nickname; he’ll get to grill for her outdoors in the summer and make jokes about how she brings out his inner caveman. One day, they’ll get married and Brooke will carry his kids, and lord if that realization doesn’t eat at me like spilled battery acid. There’s a hole in the center of my chest, sizzling and raw.
I’m so fucking jealous of this hypothetical man, it makes my movements jerky and my grip rougher than I’d like. Brooke, though, doesn’t complain—instead she whimpers and kisses me harder as I squeeze her hips.
You’re lucky to get this much . My inner reminder is stern, my racing mind desperately trying to get things back under control, because Brooke only challenged me to a single kiss. She offered an inch, and now I’m taking a mile.
I should be better.
But I can’t fucking let her go.
One kiss turns into two, three, ten, twenty, until my lips tingle and Brooke’s own mouth is extra pink from beard burn. Somewhere in the middle, she takes off her glasses and places them carefully on a side table. So goddamn cute I could howl.
The sun sinks toward the treeline, the afternoon fading away as we cling together on the deck. My knees are numb against the wooden boards, and the wicker creaks like crazy every time Brooke shifts position.
The breeze is colder now without the blazing sun. The trees nearby come alive with chatter as birds settle in for dusk, all of them squabbling over the best roosts. Their din echoes over the mountainside, while the freshwater lake glows silver in the fading light.
“It’s getting cold,” Brooke whispers, breaking the spell at last. I nod, resigned. Nothing perfect can ever last. I shouldn’t get greedy.
“Yeah. We’d better get inside.”
* * *
If I had an ounce of self preservation earlier, I would’ve fixed up Brooke’s scrapes and bruises, bandaged her ankle, then driven her the rest of the way down the mountain in my truck while the light was still good. I could’ve dropped her back at her apartment in town, gotten her safe and settled, then called Jake to come and check in on her. Could’ve made sure she had plenty of painkillers and food and whatnot, and had a nosy glance around her apartment before clearing out of there unscathed.
Now, that option is gone. First of all, because it’s too late to drive safely down the mountain path in this dimming light, and secondly, because I’ve never been more goddamn scathed by anyone or anything in my life.
The memory of Brooke’s satin skin makes my palms itch as I help her inside, supporting her weight again as she hops along on her sprained ankle. The vanilla bean scent of her hair is well and truly lodged deep in my nostrils, where I’ll probably never stop getting random whiffs of her.
My insides are all jangled up, rioting in the wake of those kisses, and if I didn’t have to play host right now, I’d go for a punishing ten mile run over the peaks, darkness be damned. If I got chased by wolves, at least that adrenaline might purge the conflicted arousal from my system.
Does kissing Brooke like that make me a monster?
Will she wake up tomorrow and feel horrified?
I’d hate that so much. Just the thought makes me want to hurl.
As it is, I settle Brooke down at the simple wooden breakfast bar that separates the kitchen area from the rest of the cabin, and she doesn’t seem to loathe me just yet. She clambers up onto the stool and gives an embarrassed smile, and then that hole in my chest hurts all over again.
Brooke always was so self conscious about being clumsy, but she’s far more graceful than she thinks. And even if she bumps into things sometimes, who cares?
“Don’t worry.” I nod at the sofa by the wall. “There’s a fold out bed. Jake crashes here sometimes.”
Brooke’s eyebrows pinch together. She’s wearing her glasses again, and they make her look adorably stern. “Okay. But why would I worry?”
There’s a long pause where we both stare at each other, pointedly not looking at the main double bed where it’s nestled in one corner.
“I was planning on making a casserole for dinner.” Hey, if I move on to the next topic, maybe all this awkwardness will go away. “Does that work for you?”
Brooke nods. “Sure. Thank you.”
Honestly, it’s a relief to move into the kitchen and have the breakfast bar safely between us. It helps me fight the constant urge to touch Brooke again, to kiss her, to lick her neck and wrap her thighs around my waist and grind up against her, putting the solidity of that breakfast stool to the test.
In the kitchen, I flick on the overhead lights then start opening cupboards, fishing for ingredients. Eager to hide my flushed face for a second.
I address the spice rack. “You can rest up here for the night, then I’ll drive you back down to town first thing tomorrow.”
I’m chit-chatting, but there’s no reply.
Just strained silence.
And when I turn around, Brooke’s really frowning. She looks hard at me, two spots of color staining her cheeks. With those glasses, the stern librarian look is dialed up to eleven.
“So that’s it,” Brooke says flatly.
My gut tenses, and I stand frozen with one hand reaching into the cupboard for tinned peas. Feel like I’ve been caught trying to smuggle a book out under my jacket. “What do you mean?”
“We kiss like that , for hours and hours, then it’s a fold out bed and you’ll drive me back home first thing in the morning. After everything.”
Shit.
I’ve messed up.
And she’s clearly mad, but… is that wrong of me? Wouldn’t it be worse to presume that Brooke would want to share my bed? Worse to keep her here tomorrow too, and the day after that, and the day after that, stealing her away to my mountain cabin like an ogre abducting a princess?
Of course I want those things. I’d love nothing more than to feel Brooke beneath the sheets with me, the bed warmed by our shared body heat. To be able to reach out and touch her in the night, dragging her closer. Smelling her hair.
And I’d love for her to stay here with me for the rest of her days, but I’m not an idiot. A few kisses don’t mean that she’s mine.
“I thought you’d want…”
I trail off, still reaching for those stupid peas. My brain is sluggish, addled by the memory of her touch. Her taste. What did I think?
Brooke huffs. “Don’t pretend you know a single thing about what I want, Hunter. You’ve been out of my life for years now.”
My arm drops, the peas forgotten.
“And I don’t know why I’m letting this bother me so much,” she goes on, her voice getting kinda shrill, “don’t know why I’m getting all hurt and twisted up over a guy who was so quick to forget I was alive. Of course you don’t want a second date. You haven’t wanted anything to do with me for years.”
A second date?
Wait, what?
“Of course I could never forget you, Brookeworm—”
“You left .”
The pain in those two words floors me. Has Brooke really missed me all this time? Did I hurt us both when I fled up here to this cabin, desperate to escape my guilty attraction?
Fuck. I’ve messed up even worse than I thought.
Now Brooke grips the edge of the breakfast bar, like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She’s still in her hiking clothes, scuffed up with dirt from her fall, her dark hair windswept and wild. Behind her, the rest of the cabin is lamp-lit and still. Judgmental.
“I know you were always Jake’s friend, not mine,” Brooke says, her voice cracking. “And you probably never cared all that much.”
“That’s not true—”
“But I never thought you’d become a stranger to me.” Her eyes are damp with tears. “I’ve missed you so much, Hunter. And now, after a single day, you can’t wait to get rid of me again.”
The full weight of this misunderstanding, of how much I’ve accidentally hurt this girl, slams into me. I stagger back, my whole body flushing hot then cold.
How could I have got so many things wrong?
It seemed so impossible that she’d want me too. Seemed so messed up, how badly I longed for her.
But it turns out I’ve had my head firmly lodged up my ass this whole time.
“You know what, forget it. I need a shower.” Brooke slides off the stool, wincing slightly as she tests her weight on her sprained ankle. “Could I borrow a towel, please?”
She won’t look at me. And when I hurry around the breakfast bar to help her limp across the room, Brooke accepts the support with muttered thanks but doesn’t lean into me like she did before.
There are no shy, sideways glances; no biting her lip like she’s holding back laughter. Brooke stares directly forward as I guide her to the bathroom, her jaw set like a general going to war.
“It’s not what you think.” The bathroom door swings open, and I push it wide for her before tugging the light on. There’s a spare towel in there already, stacked on a shelf. “I swear, Brookeworm. I’ll explain later. Please let me explain.”
She presses her lips together and limps into the bathroom.
My mouth opens for another plea, but the door swings shut in my face, and the lock clicks into place. A minute or so later, the sound of drumming water seeps through the door.
Well.
My forehead thunks gently against the wood, and I groan.
What a mess.