Chapter 8
Hunter
I’m tightening the last bolt under Adaline’s car when a scream—high, sharp, terrified—splits the air above me. The sound hits me like a lightning strike, straight down my spine.
My hand jerks. My head snaps up, and my forehead slams into the metal undercarriage. Pain detonates across my skull, a white-hot burst that makes me curse loud enough to echo off the garage walls.
Great. Exactly how I wanted to end my night, concussed under her car.
Still rubbing the impact, I shove myself backward and roll out from under the car. I’m barely two feet into the open when I see her.
Adaline. Standing in the middle of the garage, her hand clamped over her mouth, eyes the size of planets. She looks like she’s just witnessed a murder. Then, she exhales. And she bursts into laughter.
Full, uncontrollable, doubled-over laughter that fills the entire garage. She tries to stop, fails completely, snorts once, then laughs even harder.
I should be annoyed. I should tell her it’s rude to laugh at a man who just cracked his skull open because she shrieked like she saw a ghost. But the sound, warm, bright, ridiculous, just pulls at me.
My mouth twitches. Then, before I can stop myself… I smile.
She finally manages to breathe, wiping at her eyes.
“Oh my god—I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean—Hunter, I—” She laughs again.
“You scared me!”
“I scared you?” I mutter, still rubbing the knot forming on my forehead. She steps closer, her laughter fading as her expression softens into something painfully sincere.
“Are you—hurt?” She asks.
Before I can answer, she drops to her knees beside me.
Her hand lifts, slow and gentle, and she presses her fingers to my forehead.
The touch is feather-light, cautious, and warm.
Her thumb grazes the sore spot, and something in my chest jolts hard enough to steal my breath.
She leans in, bending over me, her hair falling forward enough that a lock brushes my cheek.
“Hunter… are you okay?” Her voice is soft, breathless, threaded with worry. I forget how to move.
Her face is inches from mine. Her eyes, hazel eyes, gold-flecked and impossibly earnest, search mine with real concern. The kind that doesn’t expect anything in return.
Her fingers against my skin, her closeness. And the garage goes quiet around us.
I manage to speak, barely. “I’m fine.”
“You hit your head really hard,” she whispers.
“I’ve had worse.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” she says.
The corner of my mouth lifts again. “You screaming didn’t help.”
“I thought you were some kind of intruder! Or—or a raccoon, I don’t know!”
“A raccoon?” I repeat, deadpan.
“Don’t judge me,” she mutters.
We’re staring at each other, her hand still on my forehead like she forgot to move it.
Her eyes flick to my mouth for the smallest fraction of a second before snapping away again.
She must feel the moment break, because she jerks back quickly, cheeks flushed as she scrambles to stand. “S-sorry. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I sit up slower than I need to, partly because my head aches… but mostly because I’m not ready for her to be that far away again.
When I stand, she backs up a step, brushing her palms down her leggings like she needs to wipe away the moment. I clear my throat and force my voice steady.
“I’m fine,” I repeat.
“You sure?” She gestures vaguely at my head. “That sounded… painful.”
“I’m sure.” I rub the spot again, mostly for something to do with my hands.
“Takes more than a car to knock me out.”
She huffs a tiny laugh.
“Still. I didn’t mean to scream. I just didn’t expect to find my car here,” she says.
“Where did you think it was?” I ask.
“At the repair shop. Liam said you had it towed there.”
“I did,” I say. “Then I brought it back.”
“You… are repairing it yourself?” she asks, stunned.
I shrug, trying to make it insignificant. “Easier this way.”
Her brows pull together, like this doesn’t fit with the cold, harsh version of me she probably heard about when she was in town with Liam today.
“Why?” she asks.
Why? Because I didn’t want her stranded for days, I didn’t trust anyone else to fix it right. Because the idea of her needing help and not having it bothered me more than it should.
But I only say, “I had the time.”
She watches me for a long moment. The laughter is gone, but something softer remains. Something curious, maybe even grateful. And that hits harder than her scream.
I step back before I do something stupid, like keep her here longer. “Next time,” I say, “maybe don’t scream like the world is ending.”
She crosses her arms. “Next time, maybe don’t hide under a car like you’re rising from the dead.”
She looks beautiful like this, unguarded, not afraid. I look away before I’m caught staring.
She looks toward her car again. "So… is it fixable?"
I reach for the rag on my workbench, wiping oil from my hands, slow, deliberate, buying myself a few seconds. “Yeah. I ordered a few parts. They’ll get here in a few days.”
Her eyebrows lift. “You ordered parts? For my car?”
“Yes.” It comes out gruff. I soften it only a fraction. “I needed them.”
She blinks at me, surprised and… something else. “Well… thank you.”
I can’t remember the last time anyone genuinely thanked me. I look away again and keep wiping my hands long after they’re clean.
She glances around the garage, curiosity flickering like warm light. I don’t allow anyone in the garage; she is looking at parts of me that I have never really shared with anyone.
“What kind of cars do you like fixing?”
“Old sports cars,” I say. “The kind no one makes anymore because they actually require skill.”
A small smile curves on her lips. “Looks like you enjoy the challenge.”
“I learned when I was a teenager,” I say, not sure why I’m telling her this.
“Got good at it and it stuck.”
“That’s… really cool,” she says, her eyes roaming the neatly arranged tools, the motorcycles, the restored cars. “Do you fix bikes too?”
I nod. “Built one from scratch.”
She wanders farther in, still not touching anything, but somehow looking like she belongs here anyway. That thought alone knocks my balance off-center.
Her gaze drifts to the motorcycle tucked against the far wall, a sleek, black, polished to a shine that only comes from care. “This one? Did you build it?” she asks.
“Yeah.” The word comes out too fast.
She smiles, not impressed, not dazzled. Just… understanding. “You take care of things,” she says quietly.
“Machines,” I correct.
Her eyes flick back to me. “People, too, apparently.”
Then she turns back to me with a practical tone. “You should deduct the cost of the repairs and parts from my salary.”
“No.” The answer is immediate. Hard.
“Hunter, I’m serious—”
“I said no.” The edge in my voice surprises me, and her face tightens.
“I don’t want to be a burden,” she murmurs.
“You’re not.” The words slip out too fast. I try to correct the mistake. “We haven’t even signed your contract yet.”
Her expression falls, and it feels like a punch. “Right,” she says quietly. “You’ve made that clear.”
She straightens, pulling back into herself. “Well… thank you again. For the car. And… everything.” She steps toward the open garage door.
“Adaline—” I say before I can stop myself.
She pauses. Barely.
But nothing useful comes out. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Hunter,” she whispers, without looking back.
And then she disappears into the moonlit patio. The quiet she leaves behind feels heavier than the engine I was working on.
I don’t lock up the garage right away. I grab my jacket instead.
The run is fast and punishing, the kind meant to burn thought out of my lungs. It doesn’t work. She’s still there.
I slow down when I circle back past the house. Her window is lit. I stop, just for a second.
Emotion is a liability. And she’s starting to feel like one. I stand there, staring at the empty doorway, asking myself the same question I’ve been avoiding since she stepped into this house.
Why do I keep saying things that hurt her?
And why does the thought of her leaving already feel inevitable?