Chapter 11 Adaline
Adaline
I never thought I’d become a routine person. Routines always felt like something other people had until Hunter Rexon became part of mine.
People whose lives stayed on track, whose plans didn’t crumble, whose futures didn’t explode into broken pieces.
But somehow, without planning it, I’ve fallen into one here, and it feels dangerous how much I don’t want to lose it.
Every day before sunset, I lace up my running shoes and head toward the pond.
I never make it all the way there; it’s outside the property lines, too far for a casual run, especially after Aunt Jane’s afternoon walking sessions.
But I run until my heartbeat settles, until my lungs loosen, until the weight in my chest lifts just enough to breathe again.
Then I always come back to the same spot. The patio swing.
The fire pit is always lit, as if someone remembers I’ll be here and prepares it for me.
The seat sways gently when I sit, creaking in a way that feels familiar now.
I curl my hands toward the flames, letting the warmth soak into my skin as the sky shifts from pale gold to dusky pink to deep indigo.
And every day, without fail, Hunter is in the garage.
Fixing some old sports car like it’s a sacred ritual. His broad shoulders flex as he tightens bolts with steady precision, control carved into every movement.
The huge doors stand open, warm light spilling across the driveway. Classical music drifts from the speakers, soft strings or slow piano pieces that never quite match the hard line of his jaw or the tension locked into his shoulders.
I try not to look. I fail every time. The swing faces that direction, for one thing. And the way his body moves when he works, focused, precise, almost graceful, pulls the eye without permission.
The air between us feels charged. Not hostile. Not welcoming. Something else entirely. Our eyes always meet—just for a second, like magnets briefly remembering what they are.
And every time, he’s the one who looks away first.
Aunt Jane calls my name, snapping me out of it, and I realize I’ve been standing in the kitchen far too long, lost in my own head.
Aunt Jane is wearing an apron that reads My Aunt Is The Best Chef. She is determined to make her apple pie from scratch “the way Hunter likes it,” while Mrs. Lane organizes ingredients with the efficiency of a drill sergeant disguised as a grandmother.
And me? I’m here because I want to be. I’m craving warmth, noise, and the simple comfort of keeping my hands busy.
Although my mind keeps drifting to Hunter.
The kitchen is warm and bright and messy, buzzing with energy that feels almost like a real family. We started right after breakfast, laughing, teasing, and mixing ingredients.
I’m peeling apples when Aunt Jane flaps a flour-covered hand at me, “Adaline, sweetheart, hand me some sugar.”
“Let me take it from here,” I say quickly, setting the peeler aside and moving closer. “You shouldn’t be lifting or twisting your shoulder yet, it’s still healing from the surgery.”
I spin around, and my elbow clips the sugar jar. The whole thing tips.
“NO—no!” I cry.
Sugar explodes into a white blizzard all over the floor. It's everywhere, tiles, shoes, I stare for half a second. Then I laugh, real, unguarded, surprised by myself.
Aunt Jane laughs too. “Oh heavens, child! What happened?”
“I’m clumsy when I’m happy,” I say, already dropping to my knees, sweeping it into a pile.
“Well then,” Aunt Jane declares with a wink, “you must be very happy today.”
“Maybe I am.”
She rolls the dough carefully. “Did you know Hunter used to bake with his mother? This exact recipe. He adored it.”
I blink. “Really? I can’t picture that.”
“Oh, that boy hides behind his grumpiness,” Mrs. Lane mutters.
Aunt Jane smiles softly. “He built an empire. Could have lived anywhere. But when I got sick and refused to leave Rose Hills, he came home. Left everything behind.”
I stop sweeping.
People don’t uproot their lives unless they love fiercely. Or regret deeply.
“What does his company actually do?” I ask carefully.
Silence drops. The refrigerator hums. The clock ticks.
I lift my head.
Hunter is towering over me. Staring down at me, kneeling on the floor. Dusted in sugar, exposed in a way I didn’t choose. His expression could cut glass, not anger, but control stretched too thin.
“Oh,” I say weakly. “Hi.”
His jaw tightens. “Office. Now.”
The word lands like a hand between my shoulder blades, already steering me. Aunt Jane gasps. “Hunter Rexon! She was only helping.”
He doesn’t look at her. His focus locks on me, sharp and unreadable. Not anger. Not cold. Something coiled and dangerous. I swallow. “Um… give me a minute?”
Mrs. Lane moves instantly. “Go, dear. I’ll finish here.” My first real kitchen disaster, and I’ve won myself a field trip to Hunter’s private interrogation chamber.
Fantastic.
I wipe my hands, smooth my leggings, and head for the office. My heartbeat is annoyingly loud. I knock softly. “Enter.” His voice is flat. Controlled. Like he’s holding something back. I step inside, and instantly understand why people might feel intimidated around him.
The office is all dark wood and glass, sleek and imposing. He stands by the window when I enter, Rose Hills stretching beyond the rose gardens.
“Sit.”
The word lands like an order. I sit.
He slides a stack of papers toward me. “Your contract. Physical copies.”
I nod, skimming through house rules, restricted rooms, and no discussing anything that happens in the house with outsiders. NDA terms in bold print.
“Read them. Follow them,” he says, like rules are the only thing holding him upright.
“If something affects your aunt’s health,” I say quietly, “I’ll do what’s necessary. Even if it bends a rule.”
His shoulders lock. “That is not your call to make.”
“It is, if it concerns my patient.”
“You’re on probation for three months,” he snaps. “I expect professionalism, not boundary issues.” Something inside me ignites. Heat sparks in my chest.
I stand—step into his space, face to face.
Close enough that the air charges. “You don’t get to threaten me every time you’re upset. This isn’t about control, it’s about her.”
His eyes flash. “You don’t get to decide—”
“I’ll decide anything that keeps her safe,” I fire back. “If you want to fire me, then do it.”
I jab his chest—once, sharp, more emotion than force. A mistake. His eyes flare, molten steel.
His hand closes around my wrist, not hard, but unyielding. Impossible to ignore.
The room stills. We freeze. So close.
“Don’t,” he says, low and rough.
My pulse skids. His breath brushes my cheek, and my body leans toward it before I can stop myself.
Heat rolls off him in slow waves.
“Let go,” I whisper. He doesn’t. His eyes darkening with something hot and forbidden.
His gaze drops to my mouth, lingers there like it’s a mistake he’s already making. He pulls me closer. Just an inch. Just enough that my lips part in shock. Or anticipation. I don’t know anymore.
My knees soften. My breath shivers, and my body leans in—just a fraction, just enough that if he moved the tiniest bit, our mouths would meet.
“H-Hunter…”
He inhales sharply, like he’s drowning in the moment. “Don’t,” he murmurs again, but it sounds nothing like a warning now. It sounds like a plea.
His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist. Barely there. Barely a touch. But it sets my entire body alight.
I tilt forward. He does too.
A breath apart. One heartbeat from something impossible—something inevitable.
Then fire snaps through his gaze. He drops my hand like it burns him.
“Leave,” he grits out. “Now.”
I back away, heart racing, and flee his office with heat still humming through my veins—an electric afterimage of what almost happened.
Just enough to know this isn’t over.