Chapter Twenty-Three
THE NEXT MORNING, EMMA felt like a new woman.
A sore, achy, woman who was temporarily hopping around on crutches.
But still. While her ankle hurt, it wasn’t screaming the way it had been yesterday, and the swelling had gone down dramatically.
Instead of being the size of a grapefruit, it was now the size of, say, maybe a navel orange.
So what if it was also the color of a rotten eggplant? She was still counting it as a win.
Besides. Everything else was so great that she hardly cared.
Despite her injury, she’d had an amazing night with an amazing man, including some of the most amazing, intimate sex she’d ever had.
She’d been a total pain in Hunter’s rear end yesterday, and he’d still wanted her.
He’d still been vocally adoring, and obsessed with her pleasure.
And now?
Now she was sitting at the little table in his kitchen, her foot propped up on a folding chair, with a fresh ice pack on her ankle and a piping hot cup of coffee in her hand. And he was cooking her breakfast.
Just when she was starting to get impossibly sappy about the whole thing, Hunter flicked the burner off with a flourish. She had to sit on her overwhelming instinct to offer to help—both because she was laid up, and because he obviously didn’t need it.
“Maybe I’m misremembering, but at cooking class last week, didn’t you say you weren’t much of a cook?”
“I’m not,” he said, using a spatula to wrangle a dozen strips of crisp bacon onto a paper-towel-lined plate.
The toaster popped, and he grabbed two slices of toast out and dropped two more in without missing a beat.
He set the bacon and the toast in the center of the small table, then brought over a bowl of berries and a frying pan full of fluffy scrambled eggs.
“But as luck would have it, breakfast is my specialty.”
“I’ll say.” She laughed, overwhelmed yet again with this outpouring. “But you’ve also made me an amazing dinner. You pull out a halfway decent lunch at this point, and I’m officially declaring you a hustler.”
“Fortunately, my idea of a fancy lunch is a ham sandwich.” He set down a plate in front of her, and another in front of the empty seat beside hers. “Oops, silverware.” He retrieved a handful of utensils and returned to the table with them. “Anything else you need?”
“Just one thing.”
He raised his brows, and her heart thumped again. Whatever she asked for, he’d make it happen. She knew it with a certainty that made her whole chest warm.
She grasped his hand and gave a gentle tug. Understanding took a second to hit his face, but when it did, his smile was a reward all its own. Allowing her to pull him in, he braced himself with one arm on the back of her chair, leaning forward.
Their mouths met in a toe-curling kiss. She tangled her fingers in his thick hair, opening to him. He tasted like coffee and basically everything she’d ever wanted in this world.
And it seemed like such a shame to let this incredible breakfast he’d made for her get cold, but the heat between them was irresistible.
Skating a hand down his back and tucking it into the waistband of his pajama pants, she let out a soft sound of pure wanting.
He growled and kissed her deeper, his teeth scraping her bottom lip with a delicious sting. Between her legs, she pulsed.
She drifted her hand around to the front of his hips, where his pants were tented in the most enticing way. But before she could reach her destination, there was a loud banging at the front door.
“What—”
Before either of them could properly react, the door swung open and slammed against the opposite wall. The bright fall sun poured in, blinding her. She lifted a hand to shield her eyes, and Hunter drew away with a curse.
Standing in the open door was a man about Hunter’s height and Hunter’s build.
With his coloring and his eyes. Only he was slightly stooped, deep lines etched into his brow and around his mouth.
His hair and beard were more gray than brown, and the scowl he wore was more bitter than even Hunter’s grumpiest expression.
“Dad,” Hunter muttered. “What the hell?”
His father threw his hands up in the air before slamming the door shut behind him. “Don’t you ever answer your damn phone?”
“I’m a little busy here.” Widening his eyes, he tilted his head toward Emma.
She was still dressed in a sleep T-shirt and shorts, with no bra, no makeup. Her hair was swept up into the messiest of messy buns, and her wrapped, iced ankle had her more or less pinned in place. It was the worst possible first impression.
Hunter’s dad’s gaze darted from her to her leg to her face. He went pale.
And she didn’t know this man, other than what little Hunter had told her about him. But in that instant? It was clear.
The man had just seen a ghost.
Hunter refused to be embarrassed. He was a grown man, living on his own in his own damn house. He could have his lady friend sleep over anytime he wanted to, and if his dad didn’t want to see him making out with her, then he shouldn’t barge in here unannounced.
He hadn’t done a single thing wrong—save apparently forgetting his phone on his bedside table.
So why the hell was his father looking at him like this?
“Dad?” he prodded. When that didn’t work, he waved his hand. “Hey. Earth to Dad.”
That finally snapped the old man out of it. “What?”
Seriously?
Hunter huffed out a breath, then pitched his voice in the most sarcastically chipper tone he could manage. “Hi, good morning, how are you—oh, and have you ever considered waiting for someone to answer the door before waltzing on in?”
His dad just rolled his eyes. “Never bothered you before.”
And okay, fine, that was true, but it didn’t change the facts of the matter.
“Um.” Emma shifted in her seat. “Sorry—”
“You have nothing to apologize for.” Hunter put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Then he forced himself to take a deep breath and start over. For her sake, if nothing else. “Dad, this is my friend Emma. Emma, Charles Hall. My dad.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” she said sweetly, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and moving as if to stand.
“Don’t get up.” His dad lifted a hand in greeting.
“Emma twisted her ankle, so she’s staying with me for a couple of days.”
“Just until I’m back on my feet,” she interjected.
Or longer. Hunter would be fine with that. But that wasn’t a discussion to be having right now.
There was an awkward silence for a second. His dad shot a glance at the door, like he was weighing an escape plan.
“Would you like some breakfast?” Emma had this hopeful smile on her face that broke his heart—though he couldn’t exactly say why. She reached a hand backward to loop a finger through his. “Hunter made enough to feed a small army.”
His dad gave a rough huff of a laugh, shaking his head before glancing at Hunter. “Wonder where you got that from.”
For a second, the memories were almost too strong.
Back before she got sick, Hunter’s mom would cook up feasts for every occasion.
Easter brunch had been her specialty, with French toast and flapjacks and bacon, and these little haystacks—matchstick potatoes baked crisp with an over easy egg and salsa on top.
She’d even let him help sometimes, and she always made too much.
He swallowed, his throat suddenly so tight he feared he’d choke. But Emma gave his fingers a soft squeeze. In a gentle tone, she suggested, “Hunter, maybe you should get your father a plate?”
“No, no.” His dad was already backing toward the exit. “I’m not staying. Don’t want to interrupt.”
Under his breath, Hunter muttered, “Little late for that.”
Emma’s tug on his fingers this time was more cajoling than reassuring, but he deserved it, so he didn’t mind.
“Just came by to pick up that book anyway.” His dad nudged the little table by the door where Hunter always threw his keys, and where he’d usually put things he was planning to take with him when he left. “You said you had it for me?”
“Yeah. Must’ve left it in the truck.” Honestly, last night, he’d been so worried about Emma, he wouldn’t have noticed if he’d left a live skunk in the back of the cab, much less a paperback novel.
“Got it.”
Emma shot him a look before tossing a meaningful glance at the door.
Ugh, she was right.
“I’ll walk you out,” he rushed to say. He pressed a quick kiss to Emma’s cheek before grabbing his keys and following his dad out the door.
He never locked his truck in his own driveway, but he hit the clicker anyway, as if that gave him an excuse to have come out here.
Striding past his dad, he reached in behind the driver’s seat and came up with the next Cold War spy thriller his dad was apparently so desperate to crack into at seven o’clock in the morning.
“Here you go.” He held up the book, and his dad swiped it out of his hand with a grunt that was about as much thanks as he was likely to get.
His dad headed for his own older, dirtier, rustier truck. Before he could get in, Hunter bit his lip, and then against his better instincts called after him, “Hey, you okay?”
His dad tossed the book on the passenger seat, and for a second, Hunter was pretty sure he was just going to drive away without answering, and, well. That would pretty much be par for the course.
But then, to his surprise, his old man stopped and turned back around, scrubbing a hand through his hair.
His dad exhaled, and his shoulders fell, his gaze dropping to the ground. It was like he wasn’t looking at the gravel, though. His eyes were unfocused. Red at the edges.
“Just—seeing you and that girl there. You cooking for her.” His dad’s voice broke. “Taking care of her…”
Hunter’s stomach took a sickening dip.
All of a sudden, he knew exactly what his old man was about to say.
“Never mind,” he started.
“It reminded me so much of your mother.”
Right. Of course. What had he been thinking, following his father out here like this? Asking him how he was?
Their entire relationship was built on long silences and begrudging favors. If they talked at all, it was to complain. And that had always made something in his chest ache, but that had been fine.
It had been better than the alternative, in any case. Which was this.
His dad laying out for him that same old heartbreak. The pain that had ruined his life—the pain that had ruined Hunter’s, too, and that he’d spent the last decade avoiding with every fiber of his being.
“It’s just a twisted ankle,” Hunter choked out. His throat was raw. “She’s going to be fine.”
“Sure she is,” his dad agreed, because she would be. That was obvious. So why was he so shaken?
His dad looked up, and their gazes met for the first time in what felt like years.
And in his father’s eyes, all Hunter could see was his own reflection.