Chapter 21 Hunter
Hunter
She’s had company all night.
Some dark SUV pulled up outside her place just after dinner, windows tinted, undistinguishable silhouette behind the wheel. I told myself it was none of my business. Told myself to stop glancing toward her porch like some restless fool pacing inside his own skin.
But it didn’t work.
Now it’s been there for hours. At least three, by my count.
Her lights are on. Porch lights too. I can almost hear the sweet sound of her voice floating across the yard. Light, laughing, soft in that way it gets when she’s had a glass or two.
I think of her ex, the one who left her on their wedding day. It’s an unforgivable act in my book, but the thought of him chasing after her, trying to convince her he made a mistake, invades my thoughts tonight.
My insides burn, but it’s not jealousy—it’s something worse: the sick, sinking feeling of a missed opportunity.
All day, I’ve been thinking about what I should’ve said to her . . .
And I was going to head over tonight, but by the time I got home from the field, that SUV was already there.
It’s almost eleven o’clock before the car finally pulls away. Taillights fade down the gravel road, and the quiet settles like dust after a storm. I didn’t see Wren walk her visitor out, somehow I missed that. But after they’re gone, she doesn’t go inside.
She takes a seat on the swing, one leg curled beneath her, elbow on the armrest. She’s nursing what looks like the last of a wineglass, the breeze playing with her hair. Her face is tilted up toward the sky, like she’s watching stars only she can see—or lost in thought.
I should leave it.
It’s late.
But I don’t.
Without wasting another second, I snatch my truck keys.
Two minutes later, I’m pulling into her driveway.
She sits straighter when she sees me. I climb out, boots crunching on gravel, hands shoved in my back pockets because I don’t trust them not to do something stupid—like reach for her without asking again.
She doesn’t react when I step onto her porch. Just keeps swinging as she stares up at me with those sparkling, curious blues.
“I know it’s late,” I begin. My heart’s pounding so hard, I feel it in my ears.
Wren turns her head, eyes a little glassy, lips curved into something that’s almost a smile but not quite. “If this is about last night, you don’t have to explain anything.”
Her voice is calm. Measured. Almost too casual.
Maybe I had my chance and blew it.
Or maybe she thinks I’m just like every other guy who’s disappointed her, so she’s keeping me at an arm’s length now.
Her gaze drops to her wineglass before she tips the rest into her mouth. One long sip. Then she sets the glass down on the little table beside her.
“What happened,” I say anyway, ignoring the way her shoulders tense just slightly. “That wasn’t my intention. Something came over me when I saw you and . . .”
She shakes her head. “Hunter, don’t. Please. Don’t make this weird. Don’t make it a thing. It’s—”
“No, I owe you an apology.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” she says. Her voice is gentle but firm. “We barely know each other. We had sex. That’s all. I’m not asking for a postmortem.”
Her tone is breezy, but her eyes don’t match it. There’s something wistful in them.
“Here’s the thing,” she adds quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“You . . . you seem like the kind of person who could really hurt me. And maybe that’s a strange thing to say because I hardly know you.
But I know myself, and I know how you make me feel, and I just moved here and we’re neighbors and I’ve had one hell of a year and I don’t have the bandwidth for . . . whatever this is—or isn’t.”
I exhale through my nose, jaw tight. “I would never hurt you.”
She gives me a sympathetic look before cocking her head. “You can’t promise things like that. You barely know me.”
She stands then, slowly, wrapping her arms around her middle as she leans against one of the porch posts.
“My friend tonight?” she adds. “She grew up here. She knows you. Says you’ve got a bit of a reputation.”
I raise a brow. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. Breaking hearts. Leaving before things get too serious. Or just never getting serious at all.”
I almost laugh, and I don’t waste my breath asking who it was either. “A lot of people here think they know me, Wren. Doesn’t mean they do.”
She shrugs. “Fair enough. But I’m not really in the market to be another name on some list. Yours or anyone else’s.”
Her words hit harder than I expect.
I try to imagine how she sees me. The grumpy neighbor.
The rough-around-the-edges guy who can’t get his act together long enough to want something real.
The kind of guy who ignores her at a coffee shop, cuts our late-night conversation short, then takes her over the back of his tailgate like he’s starving for air and she’s his own personal oxygen supply.
I’m sure there’s some truth mixed into some of the things she’s heard about me, but it’s different with her already. I can tell. I’ve never been this consumed by anyone—or anything. Except maybe land. And right now, I want her more than I’ve ever wanted an acre of land in my life.
“Regardless of anything you’ve heard,” I say. “The whole casual thing? It’s not me. I don’t let a lot of people in. I’m picky with who I spend time with. If it’s not working, I cut them loose. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time.”
Her eyes flick up to mine, searching, contemplating.
“I can’t get you out of my head,” I tell her, voice lower now. “And I didn’t know it was possible to feel something this intense over someone I hardly know. That’s got to mean something, don’t you think? You feel something too. I know you do. You wouldn’t fight it so hard if you didn’t.”
A breath catches in her throat, and she looks away.
“I’m just as confused about this whole thing as you are,” I admit, dragging a hand through my hair.
She huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Well. I’m not confused. And I’ll make it uncomplicated for you.”
My chest tightens.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she says, firm and unwavering. “What happened was fun, but it can never happen again.”
I stare at her. This conversation went a whole lot differently in my head when I planned it out a hundred times today.
“I should head inside,” she whispers. “It’s late.”
“Yeah.” I’ve never been good with words, and once again she has me at a loss for them.
She brushes past me, and I breathe her in—warm skin, wine, something soft and citrusy.
Her hand is on the door when she turns back just long enough to say, “Good night, Hunter. I appreciate you stopping by.”
And then she’s gone.