Chapter 16
Lou sits at the dining room table with her laptop open and papers strewn around her when I walk downstairs. It’s almost eleven at night, and she’s in sweats, with her hair piled on top of her head, wearing blue-light glasses that reflect the screen.
“Burning the midnight oil, huh?” I head into the kitchen, pull out a mug, and set the kettle on the stove to boil.
“Trying to get this loan closed tomorrow, but the lender had all sorts of last-second requirements.” Lou heaves a sigh.
I sit in the chair next to her while I wait for the kettle to whistle.
“What are you doing up? Shouldn’t you have been in bed hours ago?” Lou pushes the blue-light glasses up into her hair.
“Who are you, my mom?” I pull one knee up and wrap my arm around it.
Lou rolls her eyes, which are bloodshot from lack of sleep. “You’ve only been out of the hospital for a couple of days. You have to be careful.”
“I’m fine.” I pick at a loose thread on the inside seam of the leggings I’m wearing.
“Good as new.” Where I want to be is in the ICU with Farmor, whose swelling and pressure has returned to normal, but who’s still in a coma.
But Mom made me go home so I don’t risk getting sick again.
We’re taking turns running the bakery again, and since I got released, we’re trying to keep it open for normal hours; we can’t afford to keep it partially closed any longer.
Especially with all the medical bills piling up.
Lou’s phone beeps. She glances at the screen, and her whole face lights up.
“Is it the hot banker?”
“He has a name, you know,” Lou says as she opens the phone and taps out a response, a smile playing at the corner of her lips.
“Sorry. Is it Chris, the hot banker?”
“Maybe.” She’s grinning when she glances up at me. “We’re going out again tomorrow.”
“Ooooh, this is, what . . . a third or fourth date?”
“Um . . . yeah, third,” Lou says, distracted by their continued text conversation.
The kettle starts to whistle, so I leave her to whatever is making her blush and get a sleepy-time tea bag, then pour the boiling water over it to steep.
The truth is that I tried to go to bed an hour ago, but I’ve been lying there awake, my mind racing.
I finally decided to give up and make some tea to see if I could calm myself down enough to drift off.
After adding some honey to the mug, I sit back down by Lou at the table.
She clicks her phone off and looks up. “Speaking of second or third dates . . . have you decided if you’re going to go on one with Austin yet?”
I groan. “No.” The mug is hot between my hands, the fragrant herbs wafting up on the steam that brushes my face.
But it’s doing little to calm me when I think of the text I got from Austin a few hours ago, asking if I’m feeling well enough to go to his fancy restaurant this weekend, because he changed the reservation after I was admitted to the hospital.
“I don’t know what to do. Plus, I already have so much on my plate with Farmor and the bakery .
. . I can barely handle thinking about tomorrow, let alone a date this weekend. ”
Lou shuts her computer and pulls both of her feet up onto her chair, encircling her legs with her arms and resting her chin on her knees. “Okay, let’s figure this out. What are your reasons for going out with him again—or telling him no?”
“Well . . .” I stare down at my tea. “My reasons to say no are mostly because I’m afraid of his motives.
And I’m not sure how much of a spark there is for me.
I mean, I liked kissing him and everything, but his touch didn’t drive me crazy, you know?
Plus, I don’t get all giddy when he texts me. I feel . . . stressed.”
Lou hmms. “Those are good reasons to say no. Are there any for you to say yes?”
I lift one shoulder and take a sip of my tea. “Well, he was nice. And funny, intelligent, generous—”
“Gorgeous,” Lou adds.
“And gorgeous,” I agree with a laugh. “When I list his positive traits, I think maybe I should give him one more chance.” I take another sip.
“If you’re not sure, maybe it’s worth it to give him one more date? What’s the worst that could happen—you get an amazing dinner and one last kiss from his luscious lips?”
I almost choke on my tea. “Wow. Okay, when you put it like that . . .”
“Hey, I’m just sayin’.” Lou shrugs with a wicked smile.
“What is it that you’re saying?” Hunter’s voice from behind us makes me jump.
Heat instantly floods my neck and cheeks. When did he walk in, and why didn’t we hear him? Oh, please, tell me he wasn’t listening to all of that . . .
Lou opens her mouth to answer, but I shoot her a warning glance.
“I, uh . . . that I’m super excited to go out with Chris again!” she improvises.
Hunter pauses on his way into the kitchen, looking down at Lou, eyes narrowing. His gaze flickers to me but quickly returns to his cousin.
She holds her grin.
“That’s great,” he says at last. “I guess I need to meet this guy and make sure he’s worthy of my Little Louise.”
“Ha ha,” Lou deadpans. “Thanks, Dad.”
Hunter smirks at her and then continues into the kitchen, ignoring me.
He’s wearing a fitted white T-shirt and dark-gray gym shorts, his muscular back and the curve of his chest, the size of his biceps and toned calves all on display.
His wavy hair is disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it again.
It’s amazing to me how I barely even take note of his scars and skin grafts anymore.
They’re a part of him, but not the most interesting part.
“Hey, Lou, did you drink the rest of the milk?” he calls from the kitchen.
“Nope, not me.” She opens her computer and pulls her glasses back down.
I wait for him to call me out next, but he doesn’t say anything, merely shuts the fridge and moves on.
My stomach sinks. I’m more confused by Hunter than ever.
Ever since I got home from the hospital a couple of days ago, he’s been avoiding me.
I even asked him if we could go over his ideas for Konditori last night, and he shrugged and said, “Sure, sometime,” before retreating to his half of the duplex.
The charts still sit in an untouched pile on the table.
When he emerges from the kitchen, he’s holding a protein bar.
“I added milk to the grocery list,” he says, refusing to look at me even though it’s supposed to be my turn to go to the store.
We all pitch in on the basics since he still doesn’t have a fridge, stove, or running water.
Though the latest update was hopefully at least water by next week.
“Okay, thanks, I’ll make sure to get more skim since I know it’s your favorite,” I tease, hoping for some indication that he knows I’m alive.
“Whatever you want,” is all he says, the words stilted, and he continues to avoid eye contact.
Lou glances at me over her computer, then sideways at Hunter. “You hate skim milk.”
Hunter runs his hand through his hair and says, “I don’t care that much.” His T-shirt pulls up at the movement, revealing his flat abs and a trail of dark hair underneath his belly button that disappears below the waistband of his shorts.
I gulp down more tea because my throat is suddenly dry.
“This coming from the boy who made his mom find an open store on Thanksgiving to buy him whole milk for his cereal because all we had was 1 percent?” Lou calls him out.
Hunter scowls at her. “That was a long time ago. A lot has changed since I was eight. I don’t care what kind of milk you get.”
“I can get whatever kind you want,” I offer, bewildered about why we’re arguing over milk—and why he still won’t look at me.
Hunter’s gaze finally flickers to mine. My heart rate immediately kicks up a notch. “It’s up to you. I really don’t care,” he repeats and looks away again.
“Fine,” I say, trying to suppress a sudden surge of irritation.
“Fine,” he echoes.
Lou’s eyebrows rise, but she doesn’t look up from her computer this time, busily clicking away at the keys.
“I’m going to bed,” he announces and strides away with his protein bar.
“Good night!” Lou calls after him, then says more quietly to me, “Well, he’s in a mood tonight.”
“Yeah, I guess so.” I knew I shouldn’t have let my guard down with him. The crisis is over, and so, apparently, is his kind streak.
I hesitate for a moment, then grab my mug and stand up. “I better try to get some sleep too. Good luck with closing your loan.”
“Thanks,” she says. “Good luck getting some sleep.”
I take my tea and move as fast as I dare without making it obvious that I’m trying to catch Hunter.
When I reach the front room, he’s walking out the door. I rush after him, but he’s already gone through the second door into his condo. I shove my arm out right before he is about to close it and push my way in.
The place is still torn apart, eighteen inches of Sheetrock ripped off the wall from the flooding, and the flooring is torn out. It makes me feel bad that he’s living like this.
“If you’re determined to follow me, at least close the door,” he says over his shoulder, ignoring me and continuing up the stairs.
I hurry, taking the stairs two at a time, some of my tea splashing out of the mug I’m still holding. I catch him as he turns the handle to one of the rooms.
“Hunter,” I say, and he stiffens but doesn’t turn to face me. “What’s going on here?”
“Is this about the milk again?” He sounds irritated.
“No, this is not about the stupid milk,” I snap. “It’s about this—how you won’t even look at me when I’m talking to you! How you’re avoiding me like I got leprosy while I was in the hospital or something.”
He slowly turns, his face shadowed in the darkness. He still won’t look directly at me, even now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really?” I say, taking a step toward him.
He tenses. “Really,” he repeats, strained.
I blow out a breath of frustration. “What did I do to make you so mad at me?”
His eyes are hooded when they finally meet mine. “You think I’m mad at you?”
I clutch my mug so he can’t see my fingers trembling. “Well, what else am I supposed to think?”
“I’m not mad at you, Olivia.” His voice is low, with a raspy edge that makes me aware of the fact that he’s standing in the doorway of his room, with his bed visible behind him.
I don’t even know when he moved it in there.
As far as I knew, he was sleeping on an air mattress last week.
But this is no air mattress. It’s a king-size bed with large, dark-wood posts, and his bedding is a clean, navy blue.
There’s something about knowing those small, intimate details of his room—paired with the way he’s looking at me—that sends warmth rushing through me.
“Then what is going on?” I plead.
Hunter takes a step into the hallway so there’s only a foot between our bodies. Close enough to breathe in citrusy soap and woodsy deodorant and something else, deeper, perhaps the scent of his skin. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. My breath catches in my lungs.
Until he confesses, soft and hoarse, “I’m afraid.”
“Oh.” The familiar hurt that swoops in is crushing, even though I should have known it was coming.
I should have been prepared. Seeing me in the hospital was the fatal blow—it made him realize I really am a time bomb.
He’s already been through unfathomable grief and pain, and he doesn’t want to risk adding to it by being my friend.
Even though I completely understand, the truth is still knife sharp, cutting through me.
“Not because of your heart, Olivia,” he murmurs, apparently adding mind reader to his list of skills.
“It’s . . . it’s not because of . . . ?” I gesture to the scar visible above the tank top I sleep in.
His eyes drop at my invitation to look. A muscle in his jaw tightens. “No.”
When he drags his gaze back up to mine, the look on his face sends a rush of heat across my skin. “Then . . . what?” I barely manage to ask.
Hunter’s eyes roam over my face before settling on my mouth.
The hunger in his expression makes me strangely lightheaded and yet somehow aware of the heaviness of my body all at once.
The silence draws out until the very air between us thrums with an electric need that is more powerful than anything I’ve felt in my life—and he’s not even touching me.
His phone chimes inside his room with an incoming text, and he stiffens. Practiced detachment veils the need on his face, and he takes two hasty steps away, the spell shattered.
My heart pitches like the floor shifted, throwing me off--balance. A sudden chill cascades through me, like water through cracks.
“Good night, Olivia,” Hunter rasps, and then he spins and shuts the door.
I’m left standing there feeling like I’ve had the air punched out of me, holding my cold cup of tea in shaking hands.