Chapter 12 #2
‘Well, there’s nothing like being out there in nature to focus the mind,’ Hunter says quietly. ‘And you wouldn’t be the first person to come to the Highlands to “find” themselves.’
‘You know, you should be the face of the Chrysalis,’ I tease, struck by the solemnity of his tone. ‘You’re the perfect advert for it. You’re making me want to quit my job and just stay here forever.’
‘Aye. Me too,’ he replies, a faraway expression stealing into his eyes. ‘I, er, I wish I could stay forever, I mean. Not you. Although you’d be very welcome to stay too, I’m sure. If you wanted to, obviously.’
He quickly picks up his glass, then sets it down again when he realises it’s empty, and I smile at how flustered he is, in spite of his rugged, man-of-few-words act.
‘Wait, what do you mean you wish you could stay too?’ I ask as the words in question sink in. ‘Don’t you live here?’
I indicate the room around us, with all of its signs of life.
‘For now, aye. I don’t know how long we’ll be staying, though,’ Hunter replies, stroking Stevie’s head as the huge dog jumps up beside us, folding his long limbs underneath him on the couch.
‘It depends how well the launch goes, really. Everything’s riding on that.
If the hotel doesn’t do well, it’s not going to stay open for long; and if it doesn’t stay open .
. . well, it’s back to Edinburgh for me and Hannah. ’
‘But . . . you said you hated the city?’ I protest, trying to imagine him squashed into a crowded bus, or sitting trapped behind a desk somewhere, when everything about him screams of fresh air and wide open spaces.
I just can’t do it, though. It wouldn’t work. He’d be as out of place as I’ve always been – although something tells me Hunter Stuart wouldn’t try nearly as hard to make himself fit in.
‘Oh, I do,’ he replies, nodding. ‘If it was up to me, I’d never go back. But we don’t always get the things we want in life, do we?’
His voice is sad, but resigned. I want to argue with him – to tell him that of course we should all get the things we want most, whatever they happen to be.
But, then again, that’s the kind of talk that just made me spend ￡120 on a sweatshirt everyone made fun of, so I guess I can’t really talk here.
‘I suppose not,’ I say, reaching out to stroke Stevie’s furry body, and finding myself stroking Hunter’s hand instead.
‘Oops. Sorry. Too much whisky, I think.’
I snatch my hand quickly back, and our eyes meet for a fleeting moment, which sends a hot shiver running deliciously down the length of my body.
Uh-oh.
‘I think it’s time we got you to bed,’ says Hunter, a line that makes my knees suddenly weak, for reasons I don’t think I can blame on the alcohol this time.
‘Oh, I . . . um . . .’ I splutter awkwardly, heat flooding my cheeks as I try to figure out what to say to this. And what I want to say to it.
‘Your bed,’ Hunter clarifies, his face almost as red as mine is, as he gets quickly to his feet. ‘It’s getting late, I mean. You should be sleeping by now.’
He holds out his hands to help me up, and I briefly wish I could just sink into the sofa and disappear down the side of it, like a lost coin.
‘Right! Yes! Of course!’ I say instead, giving a large, theatrical yawn. ‘Just what I was thinking, too!’
I take his hands – which are large and warm, and a little bit rough from all of that manual labour he does – and allow him to gently pull me upwards, staggering slightly as I find myself back on two feet again.
There’s a brief moment where I overbalance and end up leaning against his hard chest, my cheek pressed up against his sweater, then another moment in which time seems to briefly stand still.
Then Hunter’s arms cautiously wrap themselves around my body and I allow myself to relax into him, breathing in the woodsy, spicy scent, and allowing some of the tension I’ve been carrying around since I got here to seep out of my body.
‘Rosie,’ he whispers softly, his breath warm in my hair. ‘Are you sleeping?’
‘Nope,’ I say brightly, pushing back against him until I’m upright again. ‘Totally awake. Bushy-eyed and bright-tailed. No, wait . . .’
‘Come on,’ Hunter says, chuckling. ‘If you’re not sleeping now, then you definitely should be.’
I follow him meekly to the door of the apartment, where he pauses and looks down at me, that line back between his eyes again.
‘Will you be OK getting back to your room?’ he asks. ‘I’d come with you to make sure, but I can’t leave Hannah.’
‘Oh, no, honestly, I’m fine,’ I insist, taking the key he’s holding out for me and making a monumental effort to sound as fine as I say I am. ‘It’s just along this hallway. Um, isn’t it?’
‘It is,’ says Hunter. ‘You can’t miss it. Well, you probably could, but . . . look, it’s right down the hall. Come back and get me if you can’t find it.’
‘I can look after myself,’ I say proudly, but, thanks to the whisky, it comes out sounding more like, ‘I had a look at your shelf’ – which is technically true, but probably not particularly reassuring.
‘Well,’ says Hunter, clearing his throat awkwardly as he holds the door open for me.
‘Well,’ I reply, stupidly, wishing I hadn’t drunk quite so much whisky.
He looks down at me, his caramel-coloured eyes dark in the dim light of the corridor outside his apartment, and I’m horrified to find myself tilting my face up to him, as if I’m waiting for him to kiss me.
What was that about not falling for a man who lives hundreds of miles away?
‘Um, I should be going, then,’ I mutter, stepping quickly backwards and almost landing on Stevie’s tail in the process. ‘Thanks for the drink.’
‘Thanks for ironing my underpants,’ Hunter replies seriously, his mouth quirking very slightly at the corner. ‘It was a big help.’
‘Oh, any time,’ I assure him. ‘I’m really good with pants.’
And, with that immortal line hanging in the air between us, I turn and practically run in the direction of my room – which I find relatively quickly this time.
It’s only once I’m on the other side of the wooden door, though, that I remember what Hannah said earlier about Dante keeping the room keys locked away somewhere.
So, if that’s the case; how come Hunter was able to get me this one?