Chapter 3
That night, I unlock the door to our half of Lou’s duplex and let myself into the dark foyer.
Talia and I were supposed to have a movie night, but she had some crisis at work and canceled.
And Lou has a date she’s been looking forward to for two weeks.
It’s just me, my Panera green goddess salad, and Netflix.
My mom invited me to come over and have dinner with her and Farmor, but after spending hours going over numbers that didn’t get any better no matter how many times I crunched them, I don’t feel up for a family dinner.
I’m tired and achy; the pressure of our shrinking margins sits on my chest, compressing my lungs.
The last thing I need is Mom fussing over me, the ever--present worry filling her eyes.
After last year, I can’t even mention a headache or a shiver without her wanting to call Dr. Thorup.
But I also don’t dare tell her or Farmor how dire things are getting. I’ll fix it. Somehow.
I toe off my scuffed, well-worn work Nikes by the door and glance down to realize I never removed my flour-streaked apron from the bakery. I head to the kitchen to set down my salad, phone, keys, and purse so I can take the apron off and toss it in the wash.
When I round the corner, I scream, chucking everything in my hands at the dark shadow skulking by the sink.
I have no idea if any of the items hit the intruder, except for my salad container—which makes a direct hit in his chest, exploding open and showering the man in lettuce, green goddess dressing, grilled chicken, and assorted veggies.
The intruder has the audacity to shout. “What the—”
I don’t wait around for him to finish his sentence—or recover from his shock.
I spin, sprinting for the door, realizing too late that I also threw my phone at him, so I have no way to call the police.
My heart gallops beneath my ribs, sending my blood pounding through my body.
What does he want? There’s nothing to steal in our kitchen, unless he’s in the market for a teal-blue KitchenAid mixer, which means he was waiting for one of us girls to come home.
I fully expect footsteps to thud behind me from his -pursuit—but none come. I make it to the door, yank it open, and slam it shut behind me without any sign of the attacker.
Maybe I injured him somehow. Maybe my phone hit him in the head and knocked him out, and I didn’t wait long enough to see him drop. That would be a good tradeoff for having been dumb enough to use it as a weapon instead of as a means to call for help.
After rushing down the stairs, I pause on the grass, prepared to leap behind the bushes if he emerges from the unit.
Even from that small sprint, I’m panting, pressing a hand to my sternum.
My heart races, and my chest is tight, as if a fist has closed around it.
But that’s normal, right? For having almost been assaulted?
It’s a normal heart, doing normal heart things in a terrifying situation.
“Liv? What are you—”
“Lou!” I gasp in relief to see my roommate coming up the sidewalk, her sleek Lexus parked behind my worse-for-wear Volvo.
“What’s going on? Why are you outside in your socks and—”
“There’s a guy—he was going to attack us—I threw my stuff at him and barely escaped—” I gasp, my words tumbling out, my blood a wild rush in my veins.
Lou’s eyes widen. “What? Did you call the cops?”
“No, I threw my phone at him!” I wail, and bless her heart, Lou doesn’t comment on my stupidity. She merely pulls her phone out and unlocks it to call the police.
I hear the sound of the operator’s voice but can’t make out her words.
“I need to report a break-in. There’s a man in my home, and he tried to attack my roommate.
” She grabs me by the arm as she talks, pulling me farther across the grass, toward our cars.
She rattles off our address in Scottsdale and then turns to me and asks, “Was the door broken into? Any shattered windows or—”
Suddenly, the front door opens. Lou’s questions cut off when the man walks onto the porch, a few pieces of lettuce still sticking to his neck, shirt, and loosened tie—a white button--down soaked with dressing and clinging to his frighteningly large muscles.
Muscles he’ll use to grab us both and hold us down and—
“Hunter?” Lou says and then spins toward me. “You threw your phone—and apparently your salad—at my cousin?”
Oh, no, no, no . . . . That’s when I realize the profile of the man on the porch does look familiar. Ah, crap.
My face heats, all the blood that was rushing through my body now converging in my burning cheeks. “Uh . . . .”
“Anyone want to explain why I just got attacked by salad, keys, and an outdated iPhone from a random girl in an apron?” Hunter’s voice is deep and throaty, and I want to get in my car, drive as far as it will go before it breaks down, and never come back to this duplex ever again—or at least, until Hunter moves back out.
“Oh, yes, sorry. Actually, it was a big misunderstanding. We’re good.
No, we don’t need the police. I’m so sorry .
. .” Lou says into her phone. Her fingers tighten around my forearm, refusing to let me escape my humiliation.
Although, since I chucked my keys, along with my phone and salad, at Hunter, I can’t drive away even if I do manage to escape her iron grip. She is small but mighty.
“Liv, why did you think Hunter was an intruder?” Lou’s mouth twitches.
But irritation emanates off Hunter like waves of heat rising from pavement, his broad, muscular shoulders tense, his free hand flexing at his side.
“He was standing in the kitchen in the dark! Not a -single light on in the whole house! What kind of creeper lurks around in the dark, waiting for his cousin to get home?”
“The kind of creeper who has a migraine from taking a red--eye and working all day, and was trying to get ibuprofen and aspirin and go to bed early. On an air mattress, I might add, since I currently don’t even have a bed.” Hunter’s voice is bone--dry.
I don’t think my cheeks can get any hotter without making me spontaneously combust on the spot.
“I should have texted to warn you, Liv. Sorry.” Lou grimaces. “He told me he had a headache at work. I gave him keys to both sides of the duplex. But I didn’t know you were going to skulk around in the dark and terrify my roommate, Hunter.”
He’s still standing in the doorway, coated in my salad, holding my keys and phone.
The lettuce clings to his neck, probably attached to the light dusting of scruff that makes him look like some sort of model, even with diced tomatoes and avocado stuck on his tie and slim-fit slacks that show off his muscled legs to far too great an advantage.
His brown hair is longer than it was in the picture Lou showed me a year or two ago, long enough to tuck the loose waves behind his ears—but now it’s completely obvious it’s Hunter.
His profile is the same, though somehow even more striking in person.
Of course he has to be scorchingly hot. Of course.
“I wouldn’t have, if I’d known she was going to attack me with”—he pauses, drags a finger over a blob of dressing on his tie, then licks it, considering—“green goddess salad.”
I wince. “I’m really sorry.”
“These belong to you, I believe.” He holds my phone and keys out with his right hand.
Sheepish, I reclimb the stairs to claim my belongings.
“What a meet-cute to tell your grandkids about someday!” Lou is fully laughing now, no longer able to contain her mirth.
Hunter’s body goes rigid. “I have no interest in a relationship right now, Louise. And you know that.”
I freeze on the steps, my embarrassment transmuting into full-on humiliation.
Did he seriously say that as if I’m not standing right here—albeit disheveled, with my hair in a sloppy topknot, shoeless, still wearing a flour-covered apron, and probably half my makeup melted off from baking all day in the hot kitchen? But still. Rude.
“No offense,” he adds belatedly, probably noticing my horrified expression out of the corner of his eye (since he won’t look at me) and realizing how offended I am.
I’ve never been able to hide my emotions.
My mom says my face is an open book. I wish I were more like an encyclopedia, unread and unknown. Especially right now.
“Hunter, don’t be a jerk. You can’t decide that without even giving Liv a chance.”
“I don’t need to get to know her. She’s probably great, questionable salad choices aside, but I don’t want to get involved with anyone.”
“I am standing right here.” I finally find my voice, now mortified and affronted.
“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to upset you,” Hunter says in that deep, smoky voice, sounding like he couldn’t care less if he upsets me, “but if Lou gave you the wrong idea, I think it’s better to be honest from the start.”
I clench my hands into fists. “Yeah, me too,” I agree. “Which is why if you’d ever look my direction, you might see that I’m not exactly drooling over here, begging you to dive into a relationship with me.”
Hunter’s brows lift, and he finally turns to me fully.
In the glow of the porch light, I see his entire face for the first time—and the striated, scarred skin that covers his left cheek, jaw, and misshapen ear halfway hidden beneath his hair.
And—curse the subtitles on my face—he sees my initial shock.
His open gaze shutters into a cold scowl. “Apparently you forgot to warn her.” He shoves my phone and keys toward me.
I fumble to grab them, protesting, “It’s no big deal, I promise—”
But he’s already pivoted, storming back into the condo.
Lou’s laughter is gone. “Crap,” she mumbles. “I should have told you, but I knew you wouldn’t care, and I’m so used to it—”
I groan and hurry after him into the condo. “Hunter?” I flip on the lights—no more surprises in the dark, despite his migraine—and hurry toward the kitchen, where his heavy steps accompany a muttered curse.