Chapter 2
Hunter
She looks stunned—wide-eyed, rain-soaked, and staring at me like I’m a mistake she hasn’t decided whether to regret yet. What's worse?
That look, it feels familiar. Like the moment right before something breaks.
Her gaze drags over my face, hesitant, almost disbelieving, like she’s still deciding whether I rescued her… or just ruined her life.
She steps forward, lifting her hand to introduce herself, and she tries to be professional, despite shaking like a leaf. But the stone steps are slick, water streaming over them. I spot the shift in her weight before she does, the wobble in her ankle, the slip of her foot.
Her balance goes. Her eyes widen. And she falls—straight at me.
I move without thinking. My hands shoot out, one arm catching her waist, the other gripping her elbow, as she slams into me.
Her forehead hits my chest with surprising force.
She’s cold, shivering, soaked, and somehow still… warm and very real.
Her fingers clutch the leather of my jacket, desperate for balance, or maybe just desperate. Her breath trembles against me, a tiny hitch I feel through my jacket, too intimate, too unexpected.
For a full second, she stays there. Pressed against me.
Held firmly in my arms… as if she belongs there.
Belonging is a liability. And I don’t carry liabilities. I go still. Completely still. Because I’m not used to this. Not anymore. Not ever, if I’m honest.
I don’t let people close, not physically or emotionally, for that matter. Not in Manhattan boardrooms, where distance is power. Not here, where distance is survival. And definitely not like this, a stranger fitting perfectly against me as if the universe shoved her into my arms on purpose.
I don’t know where to put this feeling, and I don’t like that it exists. Feelings complicate things. They blur judgment, and people get hurt.
“Careful,” I say, my voice coming out too low, too rough, betraying more than it should. That snaps her awake. She jerks back as if burned, wobbling again, and I hold her just a bit longer. Then I release her slowly, cautiously, as if she might topple over from sheer embarrassment alone.
“I… I’m fine,” she says, breathless, humiliated, absolutely not fine.
Her cheeks flush, and she refuses to meet my eyes. As first impressions go, she’s not exactly winning points. Her gaze shoots everywhere but at me, the ground, her shoes, her bag, even the air seems safer than looking me in the face.
And I should let her have that. I should step back, create space again, and return to the comfortable distance I prefer.
But I don’t.
I can’t seem to look anywhere else.
Rain drips from her brown hair, sliding down her cheeks like glittering threads. When she finally looks at me, her eyes are hazel—sharp and unsure and too expressive for someone standing in a storm.
She’s soaked, disheveled, a mess by any reasonable standard, but I can’t help but stare. Her chest rises too quickly. She’s rattled, trying so hard to pull herself together, smoothing the torn fabric of her skirt as if that could erase what just happened.
But it won’t. Because I felt it, the moment she leaned on me. Like those trust falls people do, and I have a feeling I passed it, even though I would never trust anyone to catch me.
Accidental or not, she trusted me with her whole weight. And I hate admitting it. A small, traitorous part of me registered the contact like a mistake worth repeating.
The rain hasn’t let up. It sheets across the driveway in silver lines, pooling around my boots as I finally swing off the bike.
My legs feel steadier than they should after what just happened, after having her pressed against me, clinging like she trusted me before she meant to.
I ignore the flicker of heat that tries to crawl up my spine.
She stands near the bottom of the steps, arms wrapped around herself, shoulders tight, trying to pretend she isn’t embarrassed. She looks like the storm swallowed her whole and spat her out here.
“Are you okay?” I ask, harsher than intended. I clear my throat. “Did you hurt yourself?”
She glances quickly and shakes her head. “No. I’m fine. Really.” She sounds breathless, shaken. She tucks wet hair behind her ear, avoiding my eyes like they’re something dangerous.
Good. They are.
My gaze lingers on her a fraction too long. A warning spark flares low in my chest, the kind that only ever leads to trouble. I force myself to look away. She’s an employee. That’s it. That has to be it.
Before either of us can say anything else, the massive front door swings open.
“Hunter? Is that you?”
Aunt Jane’s voice carries out into the rain, bright and warm enough to cut through the cold.
She steps into the entryway light, wrapped in a soft shawl, her silver hair pinned loosely, her eyes shining with mischief and curiosity.
Even from here, I can feel her mood lift when she spots the figure beside me.
“Oh! You must be Adaline!” she exclaims, already reaching forward as if she’s known this woman her whole life.
Adaline’s head snaps up, startled as she heads towards Aunt Jane. “Mrs. Rexon?”
Aunt Jane laughs, delighted. “Oh, none of that. Call me Aunt Jane, dear. Come inside… goodness, you’re drenched!”
Adaline steps towards the door, and I follow. Aunt Jane's voice is warm, affectionate, everything I am not, and the contrast is instant. The entire entryway glows brighter for her presence. I watch Adaline’s expression shift.
The uncertainty softens. Her eyes warm. She straightens a little, clutching her bag as if anchoring herself to something safe.
Aunt Jane beams at her like she’s been waiting for this moment. And maybe she has—she’s been lonely, restless, needing help she refuses to admit she needs. Adaline smiles back, soft, genuine, and something in Aunt Jane’s face lights up.
She takes one look at Adaline—soaked hair, torn skirt, rain still dripping from her sleeves, and her expression shifts instantly with concern. “Oh my goodness, are you alright, dear?” she asks, already stepping closer.
Aunt Jane loops her arm through Adaline’s with surprising strength.
“Come in, dear. Let’s get you warm. Hunter, don’t just stand there—close the door before the whole foyer gets wet!”
Adaline glances back at me. The warm glow from the foyer spills over the entryway as Adaline steps inside, Aunt Jane practically glued to her side. I follow them in, shutting the door behind me.
Adaline takes in the grand foyer like she’s stepped into another world, eyes wide, shoulders drawn tight, trying not to drip all over the marble. She’s clearly overwhelmed. Too overwhelmed.
And that’s a problem.
Because the agency promised someone experienced. Someone capable. Someone who didn’t look like she might blow away in a stiff breeze or burst into tears if I raised my voice one decibel. Someone who didn’t fall into my arms five minutes after meeting me.
But Aunt Jane is glowing, absolutely glowing.
“This way, dear,” Aunt Jane chirps, tugging Adaline gently toward the sitting area. “Let me introduce you to Mrs. Lane.”
Mrs. Lane appears from the hallway with a dish towel in her hands, her expression warm and knowing. She takes one look at Adaline, soaked, nervous, clutching her tote like a shield, and softens instantly.
“Oh, you poor thing!” Mrs. Lane says. “Let’s get you settled before you catch a cold.”
Adaline offers a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry… I wasn’t expecting to arrive looking like…”
“Like a drenched kitten,” Aunt Jane finishes cheerfully. “Don’t worry, dear. We’ve seen worse.”
Adaline blushes, some of the tension slips from her shoulders. Mrs. Lane gives Aunt Jane a playful look. “Should I show her to her room, Jane?”
“Yes, yes. Take her upstairs. We’ll chat properly in the morning.” Aunt Jane pats Adaline’s arm affectionately as though she’s already adopted her. Adaline nods gratefully, then hesitates, her gaze flicking to me. A nervous instinct, like she thinks I’m about to object. I should.
I should tell Aunt Jane that the agency has made a mistake. That she is completely unprepared for what taking care of Aunt Jane will actually require. And she has no idea the level of responsibility she’s stepping into.
But Aunt Jane’s smile is soft and hopeful.
And Adaline…
She looks exhausted. And determined in a way that feels at odds with her trembling hands. So I say nothing. I’m going to have to fire her before things get complicated. But tonight? Aunt Jane is happy. So I keep my doubts to myself.
For now.
The moment Aunt Jane and Mrs. Lane guide Adaline toward the stairs, I finally force myself to step back. I need to stick to my rules, keep everything clean, and no one close.
“Goodnight,” I say, clipped and simple.
Adaline startles slightly at the sound of my voice, turning with a jerky motion. She clutches her tote bag tighter, gives me a tiny nod, and then looks away as if eye contact might short-circuit whatever is left of her dignity tonight. Fine by me.
I start to head to my office. I should leave this mess of a night behind.
But then—her bag slips.
It hits the marble with a soft thud before bursting open like a confetti cannon of pure chaos. A notebook with floral edges, a crushed granola bar, a tangled charger, pens, and a ridiculous pink llama keychain. She drops to her knees with a flustered gasp.
“Oh—no, no, no—sorry!” Her hands scramble over the floor, trying to gather everything at once.
Aunt Jane chuckles. Mrs. Lane smiles.
I don’t.
Because something else has skidded across the floor, straight to the toe of my boot.
A square news clipping. A photograph. I don’t pick it up, but I look. Adaline… with a man.
Dark-haired, polished, smiling at the camera, with his arm around her shoulders. The headline’s been torn off.
The agency told me she had no complications. No mess. Nothing that could interfere with her work here.
So why carry around a secret she clearly doesn’t want anyone to see? She grabs the clipping fast—too fast, and tucks it inside her notebook without meeting my eyes.
“Sorry about the mess,” she murmurs, voice small.
Mrs. Lane waves a dismissive hand. “It happens, dear.”
Aunt Jane touches her shoulder. “Come along, Adaline. Let’s get you settled.”
I don’t move. I just watch. When they head toward the stairs, the foyer feels cavernous again.
Quiet.
But the storm in my head isn’t.
What exactly did she run from, and why did every instinct I had warn me that she wasn’t the danger…I was?