Chapter 3 Hunter
Hunter
I never come to the store this time of day if I can help it.
Even in a town of two thousand, the predinner rush packs this little grocery store with too many people any given day of the week.
Too many carts clogging the aisles and too many neighbors wanting to catch up like I’ve got all day to talk about the weather and speculate on grain prices.
But I had a hell of a time getting that planter fixed earlier, ended up skipping lunch, and spent the rest of the afternoon daydreaming about a juicy rib eye.
Didn’t even get a chance to call Rich Sanders about that property.
Now here I am.
Shoulder to shoulder with the other locals—on a Friday no less, the worst time to grocery shop.
I’ve got no one to blame but myself, so I suffer in silence, as one does.
I’m standing at the meat counter, arms crossed, waiting for Britt Collier to finish wrapping the couple pounds of sirloin ahead of me, when I catch a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye.
Blond hair. Navy leggings. Oversized canary-yellow Iowa State sweatshirt.
Pristine white tennis shoes that wouldn’t last a day on the farm.
Shopping cart filled to the brim with enough food to stock a bunker.
She looks like she got hit by a long day and backed over by it twice.
Her hair’s a mess—some kind of bun situation piled haphazard on top of her head—and she wears a tired semblance of a smile, like she’s trying to make the best of it.
I’ve never seen someone so exhausted yet somehow so distractingly gorgeous at the same time.
In fact, this woman turns no less than five heads as she makes her way through the produce aisle. Three men. Two women. All of them just as curious as I am because we don’t have anything like her around here.
It takes a second for me to realize how badly I’m staring, but something about her holds me captive for longer than I’d care to admit.
She’s a pretty little thing.
No, not just pretty—stunning. Messy hair, slightly smudged mascara beneath her eyes, and all.
I turn back toward the meat counter, but not before she sees me.
She stops a few paces behind me and releases an audible exhalation.
I’m certain she’s about to say something about my staring.
But she doesn’t. Just parks her cart and waits her turn like everyone else.
Only now I can’t help but notice how the air seems to have shifted—like the electric heat of a late spring storm moving in close behind me.
Except this air smells like berries and almonds: sweet and clean and wildly out of place in a town where most of us smell like dirt, grease, and a hard day’s work.
“Hey there, Hunter,” Britt says, drawing my attention back to the counter. She gives me that syrupy smile she’s been practicing since 2017 when she took over as head butcher at her daddy’s meat counter. “The usual?”
“Two prime select rib eyes,” I say, keeping my eyes on the cuts of meat in the case to make sure she picks the best ones. She usually does, but it’s Friday, there’s a long line, and she’s looking at me with those hungry eyes she gets every once in a while.
“You should come over and cook those on my back porch later,” she says with a little wink, like it’s the first time she’s made that joke and not the hundredth. “I’m off in an hour. Just saying.”
Per usual, I don’t laugh. I remain stoic. I don’t want to be a jerk, which is why I can’t give her false hope. Britt’s not my type for a myriad of reasons, but mostly because I don’t have a type. Not anymore. I’ve got a list of priorities a mile long and dating is dead last on it.
Her smile fades, and I feel like a jerk anyway. But it’s for the best. She only wants me because she can’t have me. If she had me, she’d stop wanting me real quick. That’s usually how it goes.
“Your smoker’s nice,” I say to soften the exchange, “but I like mine better.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the blonde watching us.
Britt clears her throat, trying to reclaim her pride. “You ever going to give me that recipe you use? That spicy marinade you always talk about?”
“Nope.” It’s a secret family recipe—not that I have much family left these days. At least not around here. But very few things in life are sacred and special, and I’m keeping that one for myself.
She laughs like I’m flirting.
I’m not.
I never am.
I miss the days when her father ran the show. He didn’t inflict any kind of small talk on anyone. He wrapped their meat tight, called “next,” and kept the show on the road like a good butcher should. That, and he sure as hell didn’t try and flirt with me.
I take the wrapped steaks once she hands them over, nod to thank her, and turn to leave—only to meet the blonde’s eyes—deep blue and hypnotic—locked square on mine.
My breath hitches, but I tell myself to pull it together.
She lifts a single brow and wears a knowing, tight-lipped smirk on her rosebud lips, like she fully understood the nuances of that little exchange.
The whole thing lasts maybe a second or two at most, but in that time my boots refused to leave the ground and I’m pretty certain time stopped moving.
“Who’s next?” Britt calls out before motioning at the blonde.
I step aside, still transfixed, not quite wanting to leave her aura though completely confused as to why.
People don’t tend to have that effect on me.
Well, people generally don’t tend to have any effect on me—which is exactly how I prefer it. I’m convinced that being unbothered is the secret to life. But something about Blondie bothers me—I’m just not sure why that is yet.
I think of the black Audi at Rich’s house earlier and the blond woman.
Then I think of the rumors of some big-city author moving to town.
This has to be her, but her connection to Rich is the part that doesn’t make sense.
Is she living there? Did he rent out his place?
He’s a lifelong bachelor with no family, at least not around here. Not much for friends either.
I need to call the man—immediately.
“Could I please get a pound of the grass-fed ground beef?” Blondie asks, her voice sugar sweet.
I press my lips flat, willing myself not to say something. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t waste my breath on someone who thinks buying grass-fed is somehow superior, but I also hate to see someone pay a 20 percent premium for meat that tastes like hot garbage.
Against my better judgment, I lean closer. “You know, the whole grass-fed thing is just a marketing gimmick.”
She turns toward me, her brows knitting in confusion as she half laughs. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s not actually healthier,” I say. “And most of the time, the cattle might be grass-fed but grain-finished. True grass-fed beef doesn’t have as much marbling. It’s dryer. Not as tasty. The cows tend to be older too. Takes more time to fatten them up. You’re paying extra for old, tough cow.”
This is the most I’ve ever spoken to a complete stranger before, but something is compelling me to not shut the hell up and I’m strangely powerless about it.
She squares her shoulders with mine. I bet she also believes all the propaganda about corn products being the root of all health issues and cage-free eggs being more nutritious.
“But there are more omega-3s in grass-fed than grain-fed,” she protests through blinking, baby doll eyes that give off an innocent vibe I don’t quite buy.
“If you enjoy eating dry, flavorless beef, then by all means, get your omega-3s.”
“No one has ever called my beef dry or flavorless,” she says with a teasing tone as she looks me up and down. “Maybe you’re cooking it wrong?”
I don’t know whether to be amused or annoyed or a little of both.
Is she flirting with me? Or trying to prove me wrong?
She walked in here all pretty and polite and has this innocent look about her, but there’s something more behind those intense deep blues of hers, like she notices more than the average person.
And I certainly didn’t peg her as being quick-witted.
A pretty face, yes.
Wiseass? No.
We linger for a moment too long, both of us looking like we have something more to say but whatever it is just isn’t making its way to either of our lips.
“Here you are, sweetheart,” Britt hands over a pound of grass-fed ground beef wrapped tight in brown paper. “And I hate to say it, but Hunter’s right.”
I fight a satisfied smirk and nod at Britt while keeping my gaze trained on Blondie. “See? Straight from the butcher herself.”
The blonde thanks Britt before playfully rolling her eyes at me.
I’ve got at least a solid foot of height on her, and the playful way she looks up at me just now sends a strange tightness to my chest that I don’t quite know what to make of.
The second she pulls her attention off me, I find myself immediately missing it, wishing for another minute or two of that sweet sass that gets me frustrated and fired up all at the same time.
I head to the checkout. Five minutes later, I’m climbing into my truck when I notice the shiny black Audi SUV parked a few spots down.
That was definitely her in there—the same girl I saw going to Rich’s earlier.
Judging by the amount of food she was buying, she must be sticking around for a while.
Rich has been a bachelor as long as I’ve known him, in his mid-sixties, about as tall as he is wide, and his main hobby is playing the penny slots at the casino three towns west of here.
He couldn’t land this woman on his best day.
On my way home, I finally call Rich to figure out what the hell is going on.
It goes straight to voicemail.