Chapter 14 Hunter
Hunter
Some habits sneak up on you slowly. You don’t notice them forming until your day feels wrong without them. Like the way sunset started meaning her.
It used to just be my time in the garage, door open, engine exposed, classical music low on the speakers, background noise. Routine.
But now, almost every evening, there’s a second constant.
Adaline.
Her foot has healed now, but she still walks a little carefully across the patio just before the sky goes orange. She always passes the fire pit, slows like she’s surprised it’s already burning, then settles onto the swing facing the garden.
She never looks directly at the garage. Not at first. She pretends she’s only here for the sky, for the warmth of the flames, for the roses in the last light of the day. But the way that swing is positioned, she’s always angled just enough that I can see her.
And she can see me.
Her fingers curl around the chains, her foot nudges the ground, and she rocks gently while the light fades. Sometimes she hugs a blanket around her, sometimes she hugs her knees. She always looks… softer at that hour. Less on guard. Less ready to fight.
Every night, without speaking, we end our day in the same space, me with my tools, her with the swing.
Our eyes collide more than once. It happens more often than it should. I look up from an engine—she glances over. She turns her head—I happen to straighten up. Each time, it’s like a static shock. Quick, sharp, gone too fast.
And every time, I’m the one who looks away first. Because the more this feels like an unspoken routine, the more dangerous it becomes.
As if that’s not enough, apparently, we’ve added a morning routine, too.
The kitchen used to be mine. Quiet. Efficient. I’d walk in, make espresso, maybe eat Greek yogurt with granola, check my schedule, and be done.
Now?
Now, almost every morning, somehow she’s there.
Either already at the counter when I walk in, humming off-key while she fiddles with the coffee machine, or she appears just as I’m finishing. Her hair messy from sleep, wearing soft T-shirts and leggings, brightening the room without even trying.
We’ve reached a truce of sorts. Eye contact. A short nod. A quiet, “Morning.”
No explosions. No arguments. Just… civility. A thin thread of something like peace.
I tell myself I tolerate it. The truth? I’m getting addicted to it.
I like knowing she’ll be there. I like how she cradles the mug in both hands while she checks the breakfast list for Aunt Jane. I like the little frown she makes when she spills sugar and has to clean it up. I like that she does clean it up, even if she’s annoyingly messy in the process.
And I really like watching her pretend she doesn’t notice I’m watching her.
On mornings when I have to head into the city, I still time my coffee around when I know she usually shows up, which is exactly why I’m in the kitchen early today.
I’ve got a meeting downtown—board review, the usual noise. I walk into the quiet kitchen, grateful that for once I’m the first one here. I start the espresso machine, reach for my phone, and try to mentally organize the pitch points.
Footsteps sound at the entrance. Right on cue. “Morning,” she says, soft and bright.
I look up.
She’s in a simple soft-blue top and jeans, hair pulled up in some loose knot that looks like it’s one wrong move away from falling apart. Her face is fresh, no makeup, eyes still a little sleep-warm. She looks beautiful without trying.
She drops a thick nursing book on the breakfast table with a soft thud. I pretend to check my phone, fully aware she’s checking me out. She always does on the days I wear a suit heading into the city.
I’ve seen her in the library late at night, light on long after Aunt Jane is asleep. Always with that same book or a stack of notes. The critical care manuals, exam prep books.
“Morning,” I say, trying to make it sound neutral.
My gaze flicks briefly to her foot. “Ankle?”
She blinks, then glances down like she’d forgotten about it. “Better. I can pretty much walk normal now. No more surprise Rose Garden Death Traps.”
“Good,” I say. “Less paperwork,” I mutter, turning back to the espresso machine before she sees the way that lands. Habit kicks in before thought does.
I pull my own shot, then reach automatically for the second mug. I add an extra teaspoon of sugar. The way she takes it.
I don’t realize what I’m doing until I’m already sliding the mug toward the other side of the counter.
When I look up, she’s staring at it. Then at me. Then back at the mug. “You—” She blinks. “That’s… mine?”
Too late to pretend otherwise. “Yes,” I say, a little too brusque.
“You take it this way every morning.”
Color rises in her cheeks. “You leave sugar everywhere,” I say dryly. “Hard not to notice.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling, and for a second, I forget I have to leave at all.
“You heading into the city?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Meetings.”
Her smile turns sly. Mischief creeps into her eyes. “Try not to terrify anyone.”
“What?” I say.
“With your charm,” she says innocently. “Obviously.”
I narrow my eyes. “Try staying out of trouble while I’m gone,” I say, looking at her.
She lifts her mug in a mock salute. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. You made my coffee. You get a free pass for exactly one comment.” It’s almost flirting. Too close to it. I feel the line between us blur just enough to make my pulse kick.
I grab my phone from the island, needing distance. “I mean it, Adaline. No heroic gardening or laps around the pond.”
She tips her head. “We’ll see.”
I should push back, but I don’t. As I leave the kitchen, she’s already moving toward the pantry, humming under her breath, pulling out ingredients like she’s about to launch into breakfast mode. She looks… content.
And I feel the now-familiar twist in my chest because I like this. Too much.
I’m tired when I get back.
The city takes it out of me in ways it didn’t used to.
The noise, the faces, the endless conversations about growth and expansion and monetization…
It all feels far away from the quiet of Rose Hills, from the sound of Aunt Jane’s laughter, from the sight of Adaline studying at the library table with her hair falling into her face.
By the time I step through the front door, late afternoon light spills across the foyer. The house feels… different.
Livelier. I walk toward the living room and stop at the threshold. Everything has moved.
The armchairs are closer to the window for better light. The couch is angled toward the fireplace instead of the television. A side table has been placed within easy reach of Aunt Jane’s usual spot, with her water, medication box, and a small vase of roses.
They freeze the second they hear my footsteps.
Aunt Jane is in her armchair. Mrs. Lane perched on the edge of the moved sofa.
And Adaline on the floor, legs folded, hunched over a board game in front of Aunt Jane, dice in one hand, a small pile of cards in the other.
She looks up, eyes widening for a heartbeat, then quickly drops her gaze back to the board.
“Hunter!” Aunt Jane beams, the first to recover. “You’re back. How did it go, dear?”
“Fine,” I say, leaning down to kiss Aunt Jane’s cheek before perching on the armrest of her chair. “Boring. You’d have hated it.”
“Then I’m very glad I stayed here and played Word Trails instead.” She pats my arm. “And lost repeatedly.”
“You did not lose repeatedly,” Adaline protests, glancing up with a small smile. “You’re destroying me.”
“That’s because she keeps giving me the easy words,” Aunt Jane stage-whispers. “She’s too kind.”
Adaline’s cheeks flush. “I’m just happy you feel up to playing.”
I watch them for a moment. Adaline’s hair is down, curling around her face, a lock of hair tucked behind one ear. She’s barefoot. Again. She looks completely at home, leaning over the board, teasing Aunt Jane, laughing when Mrs. Lane complains about never getting enough vowels.
She fits. My gaze catches on the files on the table. Medication charts, daily logs, and blood pressure readings. They’re spread over the surface in a way that makes my eyes twitch.
She notices. For a second, her shoulders tense like she expects me to warn her, for the mess.
I say nothing. Instead, I clear my throat. “Adaline.” She looks up.
“I’d like to go over your contract,” I say. “If you’re free in a bit.”
For a fraction of a second, something flickers in her expression. Nerves? Annoyance? Then she nods. Or maybe she remembered the last time we tried signing the contract.
“Of course,” she says. “Just let me finish letting Aunt Jane beat me one more time.”
Aunt Jane swats at her lightly with a game card. “Go easy on your elders.”
I push off the armrest. “I’ll be in my office.”
She knocks ten minutes later. “Come in,” I say. The door opens, and she steps inside, closing it gently behind her.
“I know the living room looks different,” she starts immediately, twisting her fingers together. “I moved some things around to make it easier for Aunt Jane to reach her meds and walk without tripping. I was going to ask you first, but she… ”
“It’s fine,” I cut in.
She blinks. “It is?”
“Aunt Jane is comfortable,” I say. “That’s what matters.” Her shoulders drop an inch, tension easing.
“Oh. Okay. Good.” For a second, we just pause, I don't offer her to sit.
Before other thoughts start messing with my mind, I try keeping it professional. I slide a folder across the desk. “Your contract.”
She approaches, curiosity lighting her expression. She flips it open, skims the first page, then frowns slightly. “This is… different from what the agency sent me,” she says.
“Updated terms,” I say. “Since you’re living on-site, taking extra responsibilities. Walks. Monitoring meds. Adjusting diet. You’re doing more than baseline care.” Her eyes dart to the salary line. Her breath catches.
“Hunter,” she says softly. “This is… higher than what we agreed on. By a lot.”