Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86073 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Ugh,” I moan as I help her unbox a package of linen skirts.
“What?” she asks.
I show her my phone screen. “My ex is still texting me. Doesn’t matter how much I ignore him, he’s relentless. I don’t know what he expects. Hunter told him to stop, and I thought maybe that would—”
“Hold up.” Natalie splays a hand in the air. “Back up. Hunter did what?”
I fight the smile threatening to cover my face at the mere mention of his name. “The other night, Hunter stopped by. Nick was texting me, and I mentioned that he wouldn’t stop. Hunter had him call me, but Hunter answered and basically told Nick off, then hung up on him.”
Natalie stops steaming the skirt on the hanger in front of her, eyes wide. “Wren . . . that’s really freaking hot.”
I fan myself. “I know.”
“He’s protective of you.”
“Yeah. It’s weird, right?”
She lifts her dark brows. “Uh, yeah. Very weird . . . for him. He’s not like that. He doesn’t really care about anyone but himself.”
Hearing Natalie say that makes my heart beat a little faster. It’s a kind of confirmation I didn’t need to hear, because it’s only going to make me want him even more than I do—and I’m trying not to.
I want the physical with him.
That’s safe and fun.
I don’t want to get attached.
“Okay, seriously,” Natalie says, pulling a stack of denim jackets from a box. “What’s going on with you and Hunter? Has anything changed?”
I peel the tape off another box. “Nothing’s going on.”
Natalie gives me a look that says she knows I’m full of shit. “You sure about that?”
I shrug, playing it down. “We’re just neighbors who visit each other once in a while. That’s it.”
She shakes her head, smirking. “You know he punched Cole Benton in the face, right?”
I blink twice, then squint. “What? When?”
She wrinkles her nose, like she’s trying to remember. “I don’t know—last week, maybe? I’m guessing it had something to do with what Cole said to you that night at the Turtle.”
I stare at her, that little fact rewiring my entire brain.
Hunter—grumpy, levelheaded, avoidant Hunter—punched someone . . . for me.
I don’t know whether to feel flattered or furious.
He could’ve gotten arrested—or worse, Cole could’ve pressed charges.
I don’t say anything more to Natalie about it, but when I leave her shop an hour later, the first thing I do is text Hunter.
Me: I just heard a rumor you punched Cole Benton in the face. Anything you wanna share with the class?
A minute later, the dots bubble up.
Hunter: No idea what you’re talking about. Probably just another one of those small-town rumors.
Me: Uh huh.
Hunter: You know how people talk.
I roll my eyes and reply:
Me: Thanks again for yesterday . . . a girl could get used to that if she’s not careful.
Hunter: Just doing my job.
Me: Your job is to give me orgasms?
Hunter: Who else is gonna do it?
I laugh under my breath, thumbs flying.
Me: Bold of you to assume I don’t have options.
Hunter: Are those options battery operated by chance?
He’s right and he knows it. I bite my lip, grinning like a teenager.
We keep texting all afternoon—him teasing, me pretending not to take the bait, though we both know I’m hooked. This is a side of him I haven’t seen before—playful, cocky, but not in an arrogant way, like he knows he has my attention and he’s enjoying it.
I’m enjoying it too.
Probably too much.
I know I’m playing with fire, and sooner or later I’m going to get burned, but for once I don’t care. I haven’t felt this alive, this seen, since I don’t know when. It’s a drug. It’s addictive. And it consumes every last piece of me.
By the end of the day, I’m still thinking about him—his mouth, his hands, his texts—and I stare at my phone for a full ten minutes before I finally type something out. It’s been hours since his last message, and I’m jonesing for another fix.
Me: You hungry?
I hover my thumb over the send button, warring with myself, but then I press it anyway.
Three dots appear almost immediately.
Hunter: Depends. What’s on the menu?
I bite my lip, smiling.
We both know he’s not talking about food.
41
Hunter
I hate texting. My fingers are too damn big for these tiny little letters, and the voice-to-text feature thinks every word out of my mouth is a curse or a command. But every time my phone dings, I grin like a teenage idiot.
I’ve probably read every text Wren sent today a dozen times. More than that, if I’m being honest. It’s been a while since a beautiful woman blew up my phone for any reason other than asking for help fixing something. And none of them made me feel half the way Wren does. Electric. Wired. A man in hot pursuit.
I scrub the grease and grime from under my nails, shower off the day’s work, and clean up. Fresh jeans. A black T-shirt. The boots stay—I’m still me.