Chapter 7 Hunter
Hunter
The house is quiet.
Same as it always is.
Just as I like it.
Late lunch today—if you can even call it that.
Standing over the sink, I down two bologna-and-white-bread sandwiches, then wash them down with a cold glass of milk.
I’ve been in the field since just after six this morning, trying to get ahead of a storm system that might roll in tomorrow.
Only took a break because I’ve got a seed sensor that’s been blinking red all morning and I need a part from town.
I wipe my hands on a dish towel and grab the mail from the entry table—mostly junk, a flyer for a bull auction, and an open house invite from some new co-op. I’m sorting through the rest of it when I hear the distinct crunch of tires on gravel.
I don’t get visitors.
Not up here, on top of the hill.
Not unless they’re lost or trying to sell me something.
I walk to the front window, pull the curtain back, and see her.
Blondie: the land thief.
Maybe it’s not fair to call her that. I can’t imagine Rich told her he already had an arrangement with me. He was probably too busy salivating at all the cash he was going to walk away with. But still.
It isn’t her . . . it’s everything she represents.
Her glossy black SUV is idling in my driveway, and she’s halfway up the walk, holding a clear container wrapped in twine. A pale-yellow sundress flutters around her knees, and she’s got a messy knot of hair piled on top of her head like she wrestled with it and lost.
I stay frozen a second too long, wondering if I should pretend I’m not home, but she’s already on the porch and my truck is parked out front.
She knocks three times, and I watch from my side of the window as she fusses with her skirt and brushes a loose strand of hair off her forehead. This woman looks too pretty for her own good, too dolled up for a weekday afternoon, that’s for sure. If she’s here to hit on me, she’s wasting her time.
Pushing a breath through flared nostrils, I open the door.
“Hi,” she says with a cautious smile, lifting the container. “I’m Wren—your new neighbor. I think we’ve seen each other around a couple of times, so I wanted to introduce myself.”
I blink. Slow.
“I brought cookies,” she adds with a disarming yet nervous smile before gazing up at me with her big doe eyes. God, she’s adorable. And it catches me off guard for a second. But I snap out of it. She’s just attractive, is all. Doesn’t mean I need to go full idiot every time I see her.
She offers me the container, which smells faintly of oatmeal and peanut butter.
“You made these?” I ask, taking the warm dish in my palms. Traditionally I believe I’m the one supposed to bring a welcoming gift to a new neighbor. “For me?”
“Sure did.” She places a hand on her hip and cocks her head to the side, yet another adorable move that makes me swallow hard. “Fair warning—I’m a terrible cook. Like burn-boiling-water bad. But I’m a really good baker.”
I nod once, not sure what to do with her or this situation.
No one’s ever brought me cookies in my life, except for Mrs. Harrison after her husband had heart surgery and I planted their crop that spring.
They’re hardworking, honest people who don’t have a lot.
I refused to accept a dollar from them, so she baked me a dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies every week for a month until I firmly but politely asked her to stop.
She glances beyond my shoulders, into the house.
My jaw ticks. “I’d ask you to come inside, but the place is a bit of a mess right now. It’s planting season.”
Not that she looks like she’d know what that entails, but essentially all things get neglected until we get that last seed in the ground.
“I’ve got a four-year-old. You think I care about a little mess?” she teases, and for a moment, it feels like I’ve known her for years. Some people are like that, though—personable. That’s all this is. She’s like this with everyone, I’m sure.
I begin to say something, to protest this entire exchange by telling her I have to get to the parts store before they close, but the truth is they’ll still be open another several hours and I’m kind of enjoying looking at her right now—as much as I hate to admit it.
Blondie flashes a megawatt grin that almost makes me forget about the whole land thing.
Almost.
“All right, then.” I take a step back, and against my better judgment, I motion for her to come inside. “I’ve got a few minutes before I have to get going, but come on in.”
I’ve never played with fire before, but I imagine it feels something like this—getting close enough to the heat to imagine the burn while knowing you’re full well in control and can step away at any moment.
Her eyes light as she steps inside and slides her wedge shoes off her feet. I can’t imagine she got all dolled up just to see me, but there’s no denying she’s looking like a ray of warm sunshine on a cool spring day. “Quite the place you’ve got here.”
My home is moody and dramatic. All dark wood, exposed beams, big stone fireplace that extends twenty feet up.
Taxidermy on the walls, antlers above the mantel.
Lodge-style, rugged, quiet—like I like it.
Not exactly magazine-worthy, but it’s mine.
Built it with my own hands. It’s mine and mine alone, just the way I intended.
She takes a few steps inside, turning in a slow circle, lips parted, taking it all in.
“It’s very . . .” she trails off, looking at a massive buck head mounted above the entry. I don’t hunt, but my grandfather did. I don’t get anything from looking at a dead-eyed animal, but I like having a little piece of him in here. “Rustic,” she finishes diplomatically.
“Sorry, what was your name again?” I ask, setting the cookies on the counter and leaning against the kitchen island. I’ve always been terrible with names, dates, and generally most things outside my farming empire.
“Wren,” she says. “Wren Jensen.”
I commit her name to memory, silently repeating it a few times and hoping it sticks, but odds are it won’t.
“Hunter McCrae,” I say.
Her lips twist at one side and her eyes flash. “I know.”
I run my palm along my beard, squinting. “You know . . . how?”
“I saw you at the coffee shop. That woman spilled her coffee, and you cleaned it up and got her a new one. She mentioned your name.”
Ah, yes. Mrs. Harrison adores me to a concerning degree and rarely misses an opportunity to sing my praises.
“What do you do that you’ve got time to bake cookies for people you don’t know?” I pretend I don’t know she’s the new author in town everyone’s been yapping about.
“I write books.”
“What kind of books?”
She tilts her head, hesitating, her expression reading like she’s got some secret to tell. Meanwhile, she’s standing in my dark kitchen looking like a full-on sunbeam. The whole thing is distracting and surreal.
I hate it.
Or at least I want to hate it.
“Romance.” She fights a sly smile, her cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink.
I don’t grill her on her genre of choice as I know nothing about it. Never read a romance book in my life and sure as hell don’t intend to start. Last thing I want is for her to start leaving signed paperbacks at my doorstep like homework I don’t have time for.
“So you’re the one everyone’s been talking about lately,” I say.
She lifts her brows. “What do you mean?”
“Been a lot of buzz around town about some famous author from here moving back.”
Chuckling, she tucks a strand of hair behind one ear and takes the smallest step closer. “I wouldn’t call myself famous, but I guess it makes the gossip juicier, doesn’t it?”
“Why’d you move back?”
“Story for another day.” She flattens her full lips, effectively sealing them.
“Ever owned an acreage before?”
She fights a smile. “Nope. I’m an acreage-owning virgin.”
I chuff at the image of this five-foot-nothing blonde driving a mowing tractor. It’s even funnier picturing her attaching a snow blade to the front of it to plow herself out in the wintertime. And I bet she’s never had to set a mousetrap or deal with a corn snake a day in her life.
“Why’d you come back?” I ask.
“You already asked that.”
“I know. But maybe I don’t want to wait for another day to hear the story.” I want to know if there’s a chance this was some decision made on a whim. If it was, she might be willing to sell the place to me at some point.
“Wanted to be closer to family,” she says, “and needed a change of scenery. It’s been a rough year, and it’s been hard to write.”
“So buying a farm seemed like the logical solution to that?”
She chuckles, her nose crinkling and her cheeks turning pink. “Yes, Hunter. It did seem like the logical solution to that. And I hope it is. I’ve only been here since Friday, and I’m already feeling . . . inspired.”
Her gaze drips up and down the length of me, though I’m unsure if she realizes she’s doing it. Our eyes lock. A stretch of silence rests between us. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s stuck in a daydream right here, right now . . . about me.
I clear my throat and force myself to break both the silence and the eye contact. “Well, if you decide country living’s not what you thought it’d be, let me know. I’d be happy to take that place off your hands. Just name your price.”
“I appreciate the offer, but we’re not going anywhere.” The charm in her voice is now replaced with a polite amount of grit that somehow infuriates me and turns me on.
“Just saying, if your circumstances change, you’ve got a buyer.”