Chapter Sixteen
Hunter
The base thrummed with the same steady pulse as always.
Boots striking pavement, radios murmuring, the quiet choreography of routine.
Working as a government contractor never felt glamorous, but it kept me tethered to what I understood.
Structure. Familiarity. The comfort of knowing what comes next.
At least, it was supposed to be.
By midmorning, I was on my third energy drink, and my focus was shot. The noise in the office: phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the low hum of conversation, blended into one long, dull blur. I rubbed the back of my neck, exhaustion pressing behind my eyes.
I’d been up half the night airing out my apartment. The place still smelled faintly of smoke and burnt chicken, a reminder of how badly I’d screwed up dinner.
Dinner had been my way of saying thanks. Camille had invited me into her world, given me time that I knew was valuable. It had meant more than I’d expected. I’d wanted to do something small, something normal, to show her that I didn’t take any of it for granted.
But the second she walked through my door, all plans went out the window.
Every time she laughed, it hit me right in the gut. I’d told myself to concentrate, to act like I had a handle on things, but the truth was, I couldn’t keep my hands off her. She made every rational thought scatter.
Music had been playing low from the speaker; some country playlist that was supposed to feel casual but now felt too intimate. The soft light from the window caught the edges of her hair as she leaned against the counter, barefoot, curls messy and falling out of some knot on top of her head.
She leaned against the counter, barefoot, curls wild and falling loose around her face. Oil popped in the pan, and behind me, she was humming. I didn’t tell her I liked it. I just let it fill the space.
She’d changed out of her scrubs into one of my old T-shirts that hung off one shoulder, and I was doing my best to focus on dinner instead of her.
“You keep looking at me like that, and I’m gonna burn the chicken,” I said, flipping the spatula in my hand to distract myself.
She tilted her head, smiling in that way that made my chest go tight. “You mean the chicken that’s already smoking?”
I turned, smirking. “You volunteering to take over?”
“Maybe,” she teased, stepping closer and peaking over my shoulder, her voice dipping just enough to make my pulse jump. “But, you seem pretty confident.”
“Confident?” I grinned. “It’s called skill, Beautiful.”
“You mean, ego?” she shot back, crossing her arms.
“Maybe. Good thing you’re here to keep me humble.”
Her laugh filled the small space, bouncing off the walls.
I didn’t mean to move closer, but I did. The air between us grew heavy. Rosemary and the faint sweetness of her perfume tangled together, grounding me and making me dizzy all at once.
She tilted her chin up, pretending to look unimpressed. “Are you gonna move, or are you waiting for the kitchen to catch fire?”
I smiled, slow and deliberate. “Depends. You planning to kiss me or keep talking?”
Her breath caught. That half-second, that hesitation, hit me harder than anything. And then, like gravity had its own plan, I stepped forward, bracing my hands on either side of her. The warmth of her body radiated through the space between us. I could feel her pulse where my thumb brushed her hip.
She’d looked up at me like she wasn’t sure whether to roll her eyes or kiss me first. I didn’t give her the chance to decide. I lifted her onto the counter, and she laughed, bright and unguarded, a sound that rewired something deep inside me.
“Hunter!” she said, half laughing, half breathless. “The food—”
“Can wait,” I murmured, voice lower than I meant. “You were staring.”
“Was not.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, leaning closer. “Is that why you’re blushing?”
Her lips parted, and that was all the invitation I needed. I kissed her before she could say a word, and everything else fell away.
The kiss started softly. Then it deepened, slow and certain, the kind of kiss that felt like a promise you weren’t ready to make but couldn’t help believing in.
Her hands slid into my hair, fingers curling at the nape of my neck. The world narrowed. No noise, no fear, no past. Only her.
Then the smoke alarm went off.
We both jumped, laughter and chaos colliding as I swore under my breath, grabbed a towel, and started waving smoke like an idiot.
“You distracted me,” I yelled over the shrieking.
“Oh, sure,” she said, laughing so hard she nearly doubled over, “blame the woman!”
“I’m serious! You’ve got that…” I pointed between us, “…that look. It’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” she said, still grinning. “I was just standing here.”
The alarm finally cut out, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. The only sound left was her laughter, now booming throughout the kitchen.
“Exactly my point.” I tossed the towel aside, stepped in close again, and returned my hands to her waist. “You done making fun of me?”
“Not even close,” she’d said, smiling up at me.
“Good.” I’d kissed her again, just because I could.
We ended up ditching the food completely, ordering pizza instead. She sat cross-legged on the floor in one of my old hoodies, eating straight from the box while I grabbed us a couple of beers. The apartment smelled faintly of smoke, but it didn’t matter.
Now, hours later at my desk, I could still hear her laugh.
After the divorce, I told myself I’d never have that kind of life again. It felt like walking through a minefield, never sure which step would set everything off. The end wasn’t a single explosion, just a slow unraveling, a thousand small cracks until there was nothing left to hold.
I promised myself I wouldn’t make the same mistakes. I told myself not to try again. I’d had enough of disappointment, of silence that hardens into walls. It felt safer not to want what I couldn’t keep.
But then there was Camille. The wild curls. The loud laugh that turned heads for all the right reasons. The way she looked at me left me feeling like maybe I wasn’t beyond repair.
I ran a hand over my beard, exhaling hard.
The guys at work would laugh if they knew what was in my head. Probably call me crazy for losing it over a woman I’d barely known for a few months. And maybe they’d be right.
But the truth was simple. I couldn’t get her out of my head.
And no matter how much I told myself to slow down, to keep things simple, that spark she lit in me said otherwise.