Chapter 33 Hunter
Hunter
I wasn’t planning to eat in town today.
Hell, I wasn’t planning to eat at all.
But I’ve been running on caffeine and fumes since before dawn, and the thought of one more gas station breakfast sandwich makes me want to drive headfirst into a ditch.
The diner’s half full when I walk in. Smells like bacon grease and eggs over easy—the kind of scent that sticks to your skin until the next shower. I nod to the hostess, who tells me to sit anywhere. I’m halfway to my usual booth when I see her.
Wren.
Sitting by the window, laptop open, fingers flying over the keys while a half-eaten BLT and some soggy fries rest on a plate beside her. She’s in some kind of sundress and a denim jacket, hair piled on top of her head like she wrestled it into place and gave up halfway through.
I must’ve been staring too long, because it doesn’t take long for her to glance up, catch me, and wave me over.
I tell myself I should grab my usual booth. Eat in peace. Stick to the plan. But I’m already moving toward her before the thought finishes.
“Fancy seeing you here,” she says, her mouth curving into this soft little smile that makes me feel stupid for even hesitating. There’s always something so inviting about her, and I’m not convinced she realizes that. She’s got this aura, this orbit that pulls you in like gravity.
I slide into the seat across from her. “Didn’t take you for a diner kind of girl.”
“They’ve got the best BLTs I’ve ever had,” she says, nudging the plate like evidence. “Five bucks. Can you believe that? Also, I needed a change of scenery.”
“What are you working on?”
She hesitates, then tilts her screen so I can see the title: Unsent Love Letters.
I arch a brow. “That your next book?”
She nods, eyes lit like the Fourth of July and Christmas at the same time.
The waitress comes by, sets a coffee in front of me before I even ask—small-town perks—and takes my order for my usual double burger and fries. When she leaves, Wren closes her laptop and leans in, like she’s settling in for something longer than small talk.
“What’s on the docket for you today?” she asks.
We end up sitting there for two hours.
In that time, we talk about everything. Places she’s traveled—Prague, Rome, some beach in Greece I can’t pronounce. She lights up talking about it, her eyes flashing, hands moving like she’s trying to physically paint the pictures for me.
I tell her I’ve never traveled much. Always figured I’d go someday, but never saw the point in going alone. I don’t even like going to movies alone.
“Places like that . . .” I say, tracing the rim of my coffee mug, “seems like the kind of thing you share with someone.”
She nods like she gets it, like she understands the quiet parts of me I don’t say out loud.
“I’ve traveled alone and with friends and partners,” she says. “People like to romanticize traveling solo, but it’s so much better to share those experiences with someone. Makes them more meaningful, I think.”
Our eyes hold for what feels like forever, as if we’re having a secondary, silent conversation or secretly imagining a world in which we’re traveling together.
I clear my throat and change the subject, steering the focus to Colton Valley and how much it’s changed since we were kids.
She changes the subject to my career, asking questions like she’s doing research for her next book.
There’s no way she finds any of this compelling, but she sure seems convincing.
I tell her the best part of farming for me is planting season—even though it’s brutal.
The hours, the risk, the weather never cooperating.
But there’s something about starting from nothing and watching it grow.
She compares it to writing a book—starting with a blank page and building something that lives and breathes and transforms into a final product to be consumed.
“You can’t force it,” she says. “You just keep showing up every day and trust that something will come of it.”
I stare at her a second too long, watching the way her eyes crinkle when she talks, the way she presses her tongue to the inside of her cheek when she’s thinking.
I didn’t notice the time passing until she glances at her phone and says, “Oh my god. We’ve been sitting here two hours.”
I’ve got a million other places to be, but I don’t regret a damn second of this.
We argue over who gets the check—I win, then we say our goodbyes, and I head to the parts store for a belt I need for the 7600.
That’s when I see him.
Cole Benton.
Standing by his truck in the parking lot behind the store, talking to some guy I don’t recognize. His laugh is obnoxious as ever, some bullshit show of bravado.
My chest is tight and my shoulders are tense, nothing but hard knots as I debate my next move. A hundred words—none of them nice—rest on the tip of my tongue.
“Yeah, you see that new girl in town yet?” Cole asks his buddy. “The smut writer?”
He emphasizes the words like they’re meant to be some kind of insult that puts her beneath him, when he’s the lowest of the low.
In that moment, my mental debate is over.
All I see is red.
I don’t think about it. Don’t hesitate.
I storm toward him, yell out his name, short and clipped, and the second he turns around—I plant my balled fist square in his nose.
He goes down fast, hands covering his face, blood pouring between his fingers.
The man he was talking to stumbles off, afraid, taking cover behind the bed of Cole’s bright red Ford.
Chickenshit.
“What the fuck, McCrae?” Cole shouts, groaning from the pavement.
I stand over him, breathing hard, hands still curled at my sides, fist numb and throbbing.
“What the hell was that for?” he asks.
Options flip through my head like cards.
“That’s for her,” I say.
He just stares up at me, bleeding, humiliated, pathetic.
I walk off without another word, climb in my truck, and head back to the farm.