by Shandi Boyes
He glances at me curiously. “How long have you been staying here? Six weeks now?”
I nod. Nearly seven, but close enough.
“Not once have I seen a visitor here that entire time.” Hunter freezes with his beer resting against his plump lips, his pupils dilating. “Please, for the love of god, don’t tell me you’ve gone six weeks without…”
My eyes float between his, wondering why he suddenly stopped talking. When I see the mortified look on his face, the rest of his sentence slaps me hard in the face.
“No, I’m fine,” I retort, my loud voice bouncing off the wood-lined walls and shrilling into my ears. “I’m good. I promise.”
He cocks his brow and glares into my eyes, blatantly calling bullshit.
“I’m fine,” I assure him. “I’ve taken care of business.” My mouth snaps shut, mortified I said that out loud.
Hunter’s pupils dilate even more. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “Now that’s something I’d turn into a voyeur for.”
I don’t attempt to deny his accusation that I'm a voyeur; I’m too muted by shock to compile a reply to his false statement.
His eyes blaze into mine as he runs his hand along his beard. After delving his tongue out to lick a smidgen of beer off his lip, he says, “Damn, Paige. You can’t tell a guy something like that and not expect some sort of reaction. I could bounce a nickel off my cock just thinking about you touching yourself.”
My insides clench, turned on by his admission. Shockingly, the temperature in the room becomes roasting as we undertake a fire-sparking stare down. I’m stunned by my body’s reaction to Hunter’s white-hot gaze. There's no doubt the tingling in my womb is the cluster of yearning from his evocative gaze. I can’t even remember the last time my libido has been this stimulated. I’m fairly certain it has never been this intense.
I know people's tastes change. I used to hate eggs when I was younger; now I'd donate a kidney for Eggs Benedict on a lazy Sunday morning. But can your preferences alter so much in a short period? Hunter is nothing like Riley. Not the slightest. But I can't deny the prompts my body is signaling. Even though my mind is jumbled, my body wants him. Badly.
Our core-clutching stare off ends when a cell phone ringing breaks through the quietness. Hunter grits his teeth before delving his hand into the pocket of his jeans to remove his outdated phone. Lifting his eyes to mine, he flips open the screen of his cell and presses it against his ear.
"Boss," he greets. "Alright, I'll head there now. What type of information do you want to unearth?"
I try in vain to keep my interest away from Hunter's private conversation. My efforts are fruitless. Uncovering the real Archer Boyd is becoming a riveting experience, stimulating my mind with more storylines than I can comprehend.
“I’ll see you in a few.” Hunter disconnects his call, places his phone back into his pocket, then stands from the couch. “I have to go.”
And just like that, our intense connection is lost.
Chapter Seven
Five days later…
With a huff, I plop into my writing chair and spin around to face the new Mac I purchased earlier today. Stream upon stream of beautiful words are displayed on the screen in front of me, but nothing can dampen the woeful mood I've been in the past five days. And no, my bad temper has nothing to do with that time of the month and everything to do with the bearded man who lives in the glass house next door.
I haven't seen Hunter in days. Not a single smidge of him. From the raucous amount of activities he undertook in his private residence the prior six weeks, I’ll assume he's either avoiding me or has decided to take his lust-crazed romps to another location.
Although I have plenty of inspiration to pen a decent novel, I can't help but be a little peeved. In all honesty, I don't fully understand what I'm annoyed at. I am completely blindsided by my odd behavior of late. I've stated on numerous occasions that Hunter isn't my type, and I am in no way obsessed with him, but my writing is swaying in the opposite direction. Pages of angst-filled drama and jealousy is the heart of my current masterpiece. Either my subconscious is sounding alarm bells, or I've completely jumped ship on my normal style of writing.
I guess I could rationalize it as a painter working without a muse. I'm sure Leonardo da Vinci didn't paint the Mona Lisa without having Lisa Gherardini displayed in front of him. So how am I expected to bring Archer to life on the pages without assessing his finer quirks in full detail? Any artist will tell you it's the minor details that create the biggest impact on any art form.
Oh god. I sound like an A grade lunatic.
My stern reprimand on the consequences I could face for being charged with stalking is interrupted when a quick tap bellows up the wooden staircase. Saving my red editing pen from being gnawed to death by my chattering teeth, I use it as a clip to secure a messy bun on my head as I trudge down the stairs. My slow pace quickens when I discover who is standing behind the glass door of the wooden deck.
With a broad grin stretched across my face, I unlatch the lock and slide open the door. The smell of the salty ocean and bottled cologne smacks me in the face from my hasty movements.
“Hey, Hunter,” I greet him.
Even the large scruff of hair on his chin can’t hide his smile at the eagerness in my voice. He returns my greeting as his eyes bounce between mine.
After a beat, he asks, “Can I come in?”
“Umm… sure,” I move out of the doorway to allow him entry, mortified I forgot my manners.
The smell of yummy cologne amplifies the deeper he paces into the cabin.
“Giorgio Armani or Tom Ford?” I close the door and spin around to face him.
His brows furrow as he stares at me in confusion.
“Your aftershave.”
I’ve smelled his scent before, but I can’t pinpoint the exact brand of his cologne.
The corners of Hunter’s lips curve upwards. “Neither.”
Not bothering to ease my curiosity, he ambles into my kitchen. It's only when he places a plastic bag full to the brim with Chinese takeout onto the tiled hob counter do I realize he's carrying goodies. My eyes were too arrested by the vibrant sparkle in his gaze to notice he was bearing gifts.
“Hungry?” he asks, his voice smoother than melted chocolate.
The instant his murky blue eyes lock with mine, the sweat-producing visual of him in various stages of intimacy smack into me. Unlike the times I watched him have sex in person, the reruns cause a hot trickle of desire to heat my blood and cluster in my womb.
Spotting my shocked expression, Hunter asks, “Or is eating against the writing code?”
I shake my head, removing the images of his nakedness from my mind before replying, “No. I’m always up for eating,”
I pace into the kitchen, happy to use food as a distraction from my out-of-character awkwardness. He eyes me quietly as I move through the compact space, gathering plates, cutlery, and two bottles of beer from the fridge. The spinning of my stomach smooths to a slight twinge when the smell of Chinese food and Hunter lingers through the air, spurring on my rampant hunger… for food.
For the next hour, we devour a wide variety of delicious dishes without speaking a peep. Unlike the last time we undertook a silent stance, it's void of any awkwardness. Hunter has the type of aura that demolishes my usually impenetrable walls I raise when in the company of the opposite sex.
Normally, I’d be more reserved with my food selection, not wanting to appear like a pig at a trough, but I feel comfortable enough around him that I devoured more than my share of the Chinese food he brought without a single qualm crossing my mind.
Stuffed and requiring a nap, I slump into the two seater sofa I’m sprawled on and rest my hand on the curve of my now protruding stomach. “That was… scrumptious.”
I make a mental note to ensure I mention the way Hunter’s eyes reveal he's smiling without his lips needing to move when a bright sparkle shimmers in his eyes from my grateful
comment.
“Full?” He gathers our stained plates off the coffee table.
I leap up from the sofa to assist in collecting our used dishware, mortified that my food-induced coma forced me to forget my manners once again.
“I’m more stuffed than my grandmother’s overcooked turkey at Thanksgiving.” I shadow him into the poky kitchen.
Hunter smirks as he places the dishware in the sink and commences washing up like he’s always belonged here. Grinning like a cat staring at a fishbowl, I snag a tea towel off the kitchen counter and dry the bubble-covered plate he thrusts at me.
“For someone who doesn’t know how to interact with girls, you’re doing a stellar job,” I quip, loving that he doesn’t see the kitchen as a “woman only zone” as Riley has quoted numerous times the past three years.
Hunter continues washing dishes like he was born to do it while relishing in the peace. I, on the other hand, have been cooped up in this cabin the past five days with no real-life adult interaction, so I'm feeling a little chatty. We couldn't be any more opposite if we tried.
“So where have you been the past few days? I haven’t seen you around.” My eyes widen to the size of the dinner plate I’m grasping. “Not that I’ve been looking,” I quickly add on.
Fiery heat creeps across my cheeks. Hunter’s breathy chuckle fans a small scattering of facial hairs curling on his top lip. He must have been busy the past five days as his usually well-kept beard is a little more bushy than normal.
“I’ve been busy at work.” He hands me the final dish.
I wait for the gurgling noise of the sink water draining away to vanish before continuing with my interrogation. "Did you go to New Delhi?"
He shakes his head. “No, Paige, I didn’t go to New Delhi.”
“So where have you been the past few days?”
After placing the cutlery in the kitchen drawer, I move to the fridge for more beer. A whiny groan purrs through my stern lips when I discover there's only one beer left in the refrigerator. Not speaking a word, he gathers a glass from an overhead cupboard, snags the beer from my grasp, and pours half of it into the glass before handing the froth-filled glass to me.
“I’ve been working, Paige,” he answers, glaring into my eyes, his tone back to the roughness he used during my last interrogation.
"I do not mean to interrogate you, I'm just being neighborly," I bite back before taking a swig of my beer, desperately needing something to soothe my ravaged throat.
Hunter’s nose screws up as he eyeballs me. His ardent stare has my pulse quickening and my pussy throbbing. What the hell is wrong with me?
I release the breath I’m holding when he asks, “You were being neighborly?” his voice not as smeared as it was previously.
I nod. “Yeah. It’s what neighbors do. We keep an eye on each other to make sure neither of us ends up in any trouble.”
A cocky grin etches on his mouth. “Is that why you’ve been watching me the past seven weeks. Making sure I’m not getting into any mischief?”
I kick him in the shoe. “Not that type of trouble,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
Look at me acting all high and mighty when that's exactly why I eyeballed him.
"What if I saw a bandit nicking one of your nude paintings? I wouldn't have any way of telling you. I don't even know your full name, let alone your phone number," I gabble, pacing into the living room.
I guzzle down the remainder of my beer, praying it will stop the word vomit spilling from my lips. I pretty much just asked for his number by dropping hints. Can anyone say “Loser?”
Hunter runs the back of his hand over his mouth, removing a smidgen of beer off his top lip before he answers, "I have the world's most advanced security system. I'm not the slightest bit concerned about being robbed."
“Good to know.” I vainly try to hide the snarl in my tone and miserably fail.
I plop onto the rock hard sofa, my movements heavy, weighed down by the harsh blow of rejection.
Hunter’s gaze flicks sideways. “But for peace of mind, I guess we could always exchange phone numbers?”
A broad grin stretches across my face as my insides break into a jig. “Sure, if you want.” I shrug, hoping it will conceal my happiness.
Chapter Eight
“Hey, Hunter.” I pull open the sliding door and gesture for him to enter.
My eyes rocket down to the plastic bag in his hand, eager to see what meal he has arrived with today. For the past four days, he has arrived at precisely 9 PM with a bag full of scrumptious food. The first night was Chinese, the second Italian, and the third was burger and fries.
At the start, I felt a little odd accepting his generosity; I'd never really had a male friend before so I was a little unsure of the protocol. But as the days move on, our odd kinship has rapidly grown to a close bond. I've only known Hunter in person for a little over a week, but I feel like I've known him for over half of my life.
“Looks a little plain today,” I jest, noticing a loaf of bread is the only distinguishable item in the bag.
When I lean in and press a kiss on his cheek, Hunter’s cheekbone rises under my lips.
“Thought we could go back to basics today.” His warm breath fans my cheek.
I close the glass door before following him into the compact kitchen. Leaping onto the tiled countertop, I watch him as he moves around my kitchen, gathering supplies and unpacking the ingredients in his bag. The Hunter who stated he found it troubling interacting with women while they are clothed has been nowhere in sight the past four days. He's calm, relaxed and carefree.
Now don’t take my admission the wrong way, the sparks of attraction I felt flying between us the night he returned my laptop are still firing, but I’m giving it my best shot to keep them at a dull flame size instead of a raging, out-of-control bushfire.
He pulls a skillet off the pot rack dangling above the gas cooktop, places it onto the open flame and dumps a tablespoon of butter into it. After pulling out eight slices of bread, he sets to work on making grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. When he pulls out the final ingredient, a jar of pickles, I launch off the bench.
“No pickles for me, please,” I request, my voice high.
Pickles are gross; just the thought of their salty ghastliness sliding down my throat makes me gag. Much to my father's dismay, I've never been a fan of pickles. A large smile stretches across my face when memories of my dad sneakily hiding the occasional pickle in my sandwich when I was in junior high creeps into my mind. Although my dad doesn't have the rough and rugged appearance of Hunter, he's a man who has no qualms making a mean grilled sandwich. His sandwiches are now just served on a gold-edged plate.
When Hunter flips over the sandwiches, revealing a beautiful golden covering, I pace to the fridge and remove two bottles of beer. We've quickly slipped into a routine the past four nights. Hunter supplies the food, and I provide the alcohol and conversation. Although Hunter probably wishes I wasn't so fond of the articulate side of my offerings, considering I do the majority of the talking.
With a stack of grilled sandwiches balancing on a plate, Hunter follows me into the living room. Dumping the bottles of beer onto the coffee table, I snag the two scatter cushions off the couch and place them on the floor, and hey presto, our makeshift dining area is complete.
Just like the previous four nights, our meal is shared in silence. Too much quiet generally irritates me, but surprisingly, I enjoy small moments of silence when I am with Hunter. So much of his endearing characteristics are exposed through his actions more than his words.
I've added multiple mental notes on his finer quirks to my already extensive collection. Like how the small crumbs of bread from his top lip drop onto his beard and become nonexistent, how he wipes the back of his hand over his mouth after every third bite, and how his gulps of beer are so large, he can drink half of the bottle with one swig.
Once there's nothing but crumbs left on the plate, I crank my elbow onto
the couch and rest my cheek on my hand.
“So anything exciting happen in the telemarketing world today?”
Hunter smirks against the rim of his beer before taking another large gulp. Once his tongue has cleared away a small smidge of beer from his top lip, he shakes his head. I've asked him the same question every day for the past four days. He has responded in the same manner every time I ask.
“What about you? Did you smash your word count?” he asks.
I smile while nodding. After telling him about my strict deadline the first night we dined together, each day when he leaves, he assigns me a word count I have to strive to reach the following day. Being super competitive, I give it my all. Yesterday he assigned one of his biggest targets to date. Ten thousand words in a day. Shockingly, I hit my ten thousand words by 6 PM, meaning I added another two thousand before I showered in preparation for Hunter’s arrival.
“It may end up being nothing but a whole heap of word vomit, but I smashed it,” I jest, my tone high and eager.
Hunter awards me with a playful wink before placing his beer on the coffee table. I eye him curiously when his hand delves into the pocket of his jeans, and he produces a small black camera like device.
“I have something that may assist with your writing,” he explains to my bemused expression.
Snatching my iPhone off the table, he connects the device to the speaker port of my phone. My brows shoot up to my hairline when he logs into my phone without asking for the lock code. Making a mental note to check the security of my phone, I lean closer to Hunter when he twists the phone screen to me.
“With this device, you can scan your notes and upload them to your phone.” He snaps a picture of one of my many random scraps of paper lying around the living room.
“Kind of like notes to PDF?”
His shoulders shrug. “Not really. This is similar to a scanner, but instead of just scanning the documents as an image, it takes your handwritten words and types them into your pages app.”
