7. Hunter
Chapter seven
Hunter
The next morning, I’m sitting at a little table in the sunroom, facing the kitchen.
Typically, I sit here to enjoy the view.
The sunroom has three windowed walls that look out at the woods.
In the winter, when the trees have lost their leaves, we have a good view of the rolling Blue Ridge Mountains.
In the summer, it’s so bright and green in here that it feels like you’re outdoors …
except with the benefit of air conditioning.
But I’m not looking out at the view this morning. I’m waiting for Ellie James.
Eventually, she comes into the kitchen looking sleep-rumpled and way too beautiful for my own good. My heart, already racing just knowing she’s here, stutters as she shuffles toward the coffee maker.
“Morning,” I say, my voice sounding far too gruff for someone like Ellie. She gives me a friendly grunt in response—she’s never been much of a morning person. I’ll never forget the camping trip we went on during my senior year of high school when Ellie punched Asher for waking her up too early.
Glad to see some things never change.
I take inventory of Ellie as she makes herself at home—pulling a mug down from the cabinet and getting herself coffee. As if she belongs here.
If she only knew …
She’s wearing thick socks but tiny pajama shorts.
I have to skate quickly over that fact so I don’t linger on her legs for too long.
Her oversized sleep shirt is falling down over one shoulder, displaying silky skin.
The tips of her blonde hair kiss her collarbone—and suddenly I’m envisioning running my lips over her skin. Who knew collarbones were sexy? Not me.
I shake my head, withholding a groan. I should not be thinking about the woman I’m trying to help—who is pregnant with another man’s baby—in that way.
It’s wrong to find a pregnant woman sexy …
right? There’s got to be a rule about that somewhere.
Probably one of those rules your grandma teaches you about manners.
But when Ellie turns to me with a soft smile on her face before taking a sip of coffee … it’s as if every feeling I’d stuffed down since high school is bursting back up. Like I’ve got an emotional geyser living within me.
She shuffles over to my table, and we sit in comfortable silence as we sip our coffee. I can tell when the caffeine kicks in and Ellie’s brown eyes brighten. “What’s on your docket for today?” she asks.
“I’m on terminal leave for the next couple of months, so I’ll spend most of my time figuring out what to do with my life next and fixing up the house.” I wave my coffee cup, gesturing toward the house. “What about you?”
She sighs. “I’ve got work.” Her voice is filled with dread. Huh. I always thought Ellie enjoyed her job making custom clothes.
“Do we need to get your supplies and bring them here?” I ask, realizing we didn’t grab any fabric or her sewing machine or anything like that yesterday.
She shakes her head, her hair tossing back and forth in a mesmerizing way.
“I’m not doing that anymore,” she says, her tone guarded. “I work at a dentist’s office in Cypress City.”
I set my mug down a little too hard, coffee sloshing over the side. “You’re driving all the way to Cypress City every day?”
She shrugs like it’s no big deal, and I try not to get distracted by her bare shoulder again.
“I needed insurance,” she whispers, like it’s a dirty secret.
My heart squeezes in my chest in a way that has only ever happened for Ellie James.
Everything within me wants to protect her, to provide everything she’s ever wanted—and then some.
But since I already practically threw her over my shoulder and forced her to come here, I’m thinking I should slow my roll and make sure I don’t overwhelm her.
“That makes sense,” I say, forcing the words out so that I don’t spit out stay with me and let me care for you forever. I stand up, needing to stay busy so I don’t say (or do) anything crazy. “Want breakfast?”
Ellie is making this roommate situation very, very difficult.
It’s been a week since she moved in, and we’ve already fallen into a rhythm together.
We sip our coffee in silence first thing in the morning, Ellie in her sleep shirt that drives me wild.
I make us breakfast and she leaves for work.
I spend the rest of the day trying to enjoy my leave—but I’m really just counting down the minutes until Ellie gets home.
I work out, search job listings, fix things around the house, run errands for my mom and grandma, go on hikes, read, and stare at the clock until I hear Ellie’s car crunching over the gravel drive.
I feel pathetic, like a hound waiting for its owner to get home.
At first, Ellie insisted on making dinner for us—she said that because I was hosting her, she should provide some meals.
But when Ellie cooks, she cooks with the entire kitchen—and I mean the whole thing.
Every pot, pan, utensil, and spice gets used.
As much as I appreciate Ellie’s willingness to cook, I’ve found that it’s easier if I make dinner before she gets home.
I’m not a particularly accomplished chef, but I can grill meat pretty well and make basic veggies and starches to round out the meal.
Ellie doesn’t seem to be complaining—but she’s so dead on her feet by the time she gets home that I think she’d eat a cardboard box if I served it up to her.
Usually after dinner, we clean up and then head to the couch to watch a show. We’ve started watching Friends—I’ve never watched it, but Ellie says it’s a favorite of hers.
At first, Ellie and I sat on opposite sides of the couch, but as the days went on, Ellie got closer and closer. It started with her tucking her feet under my thighs. She said her toes were cold—and then blamed it on the baby.
“All of my body’s energy is going toward keeping Sweetpea warm, at the expense of my fingers and toes,” she told me.
The next day, her feet were in my lap. I took this as a sign to rub her feet, a gesture that earned effusive praise in the form of happy groans that I had to pretend didn’t rile me up.
Today, she presents me her calves. I rub them but make a pact with myself not to go above her knees.
I wonder what I’ll do if tomorrow she winds up sitting in my lap.
Yep. Ellie James is the worst roommate ever.
But I wouldn’t have it any other way.