by Shandi Boyes
I clutch the material of the dress to my less-than-stellar cleavage before spinning around to face him. My steps are shaky since I'm balancing on a pair of wobbly knees. I stare into his eyes, gauging if he can feel the zapping in the air as well. His eyes are expressive, but not enough for me to garner an answer to my silent interrogation.
“Tell me you feel something?” I mutter, my voice barely a whisper, no longer able to harbor my need to know if he can feel the energy in the air or if I'm just going insane from lack of human contact.
All writers are a little bit quirky. Heck, I'm beyond quirky, but I'm still wholly stumped by the vibrancy that sparks the air when I’m in Hunter’s presence. I've never felt anything like this. I've read about it, but always assumed it was an overly dramatic way to describe two characters’ connection. But this isn't just a feeling in my core; it's real, and it's heart-stopping.
His top lip twinges as his eyes bounce between mine. Just when I think he's going to say something, his eyes drift past my shoulder to the dark emerald green satin gown hanging in the middle of the monstrously sized dressing room. It has a gorgeous tight crossover fitted bodice and mermaid tail. Although it's divine, there's no way in hell I'm paying the excessive amount on the price tag for one dress. It costs more than all the royalties I’ve collected from my first novel thus far.
“That one.” Hunter’s eyes spark with zeal.
After pressing his finger to his lips, his fervent gaze turns to Melinda. “We are taking that one.” He points to the ridiculously overpriced dress.
Melinda’s eyes flare with excitement. Obviously, she works off commission. Her eagerness doesn’t last long when I shake my head.
“No. I’m not paying for a dress that costs more than the first car I owned. We will take the Azaelea Guipure-Lace Illusion dress, but instead of navy blue, I’ll take it in cobalt blue and one size smaller.” My tone is surprisingly firm – not just spurred on by Melinda’s rudeness the past hour, but from another brutal rejection by Hunter.
When he attempts an objection, I press my index finger against his lips. "Shut up," I demand, using the same tone he did when he rejected me weeks ago. "I know you didn't like the knee length skirt, but with the right stiletto heels and a few accessories, it will be a knockout. Trust me."
Not giving him the chance to protest any further, I snap the curtain closed and slip out of the exorbitantly priced stripper dress before sliding back into my stretchy yoga pants and one shoulder long-sleeve shirt.
Hunter remains quiet as we shadow Melinda out of the dressing room. I vaguely try to pretend I’m not cringing at paying a little over $500 for a dress. Don’t get me wrong, the dress is pretty, but it still isn’t worth that price point. The crinkles impeding my forehead deepen when Hunter pulls his wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans when we arrive at the cashier station.
"What are you doing?" I query, my voice snarky. I need to eat something. I always get a little bitchy when I’m hungry.
His eyes drift between Melinda and me. “Paying for your dress?” His tone is as dubious as his facial expression.
My brows hit the edge of my hairline. “Do I look like a hooker to you?”
The rhythm of my pulse speeds when his eyes leisurely run the curves of my body.
"No. Not a low-end one anyway," Hunter answers.
My bitchiness falters from the jaunty gleam in his eyes. I kick him in the ankle before handing my credit card to a scowling-faced Melinda.
“You're certainly not Richard Gere, and I'm no Julia Roberts,” I mumble under my breath.
From the crass grin that stretches across his face, I can be assured he heard my witty comment.
After gathering my boutique bag from Melinda, I return my credit card to my purse and follow Hunter to his car. The midday sun beaming off the charcoal black coloring of his car gives me a brilliant idea.
“I want to drive,” I shout, probably a little loud since a little old lady walking by jumps in fright.
After issuing an apology to the lady who is now one step closer to her grave, I lock my eyes with Hunter. “I want to drive your Hellcat. Just the first twenty miles,” I negotiate.
“Nope, not happening,” he replies, his tone curt.
I stop my brisk pace to his car and cross my arms in front of my chest. “Then I’m not going to the gala.”
“Bullshit,” Hunter retorts, not the slightest bit concerned about my threat. “You wouldn’t have brought a dress if you weren’t planning on coming.”
Little does he know, acting is another one of my creative arts.
“I can wear that dress to any function,” I say, wiping his smug grin right off his face. “Besides, what am I getting out of this deal? I’m helping you out, yet I’m the one being handed the short straw.”
I should feel threatened by the glare he's directing at me, but his threat doesn’t hold any heat. The twitching of his lips as he suppresses a smile gives away his true feelings.
“I have to consume food only rabbits should eat, and squeeze into a dress two sizes too small so some old geezer can skip his little blue pill for the night. Sounds like a rip-roaring night of fun. NOT. I’d rather wax my eyebrows and watch re-runs of Mash.”
I spin on my heels, preparing to walk down the cracked concrete sidewalk. “Bye, Hunter.” My tone is smug.
My brisk pace halts when the snappiest “Fine,” comes out of a pair of stern lined lips. I quickly spin on my heels, not wanting to give him the opportunity of recanting his statement.
Hunter’s eyes glare into mine as I span the distance between us. “If you get one scratch on my car—”
“You’ll spank my bottom?” I interrupt, grinning a victorious smirk as I snag the keys out of his hands.
"I'll do far worse than spank your ass, Paige," he rebuts, his tone grumbly.
I munch on my bottom lip and glance into his eyes, pretending I’m a little sex fiend who has no qualms about a playful spanking. “Oh, well, in that case,” I purr, my voice extra throaty.
Not appreciating my attempts at sarcasm, he snatches the keys back out of my grasp.
Ignoring his noteworthy scent, I stand on my tippy toes and brush my lips on the shell of his earlobe. “I promise I won’t scratch your car. . . Unless you want me to?”
It takes ten miles for Hunter to release the deathly tight grip on his thighs, and another twenty miles before the tightening of his jaw loosens. By the time we are fifty miles out of Ravenshoe, the strain encumbering his gorgeous face has slackened, and the standard pre-terrified Hunter re-emerges.
I drift my eyes from the road to Hunter. “What’s your interest in the charity gala?” Nothing against Hunter, but he doesn’t appear to be the charity function type of guy.
He scrapes his hand along the edge of his beard as a smirk stretches across his mouth. “What is it with women judging me this week? First Izzy. Now you.”
I smile, loving that he can read my real intentions when I’ve only spoken six little words.
“I’m not judging you.” I shake my head. “Just clothed you don't seem like the type of guy who would like this kind of event.” I give him a cheeky wink.
His grin enlarges, either smitten by my compliment or agreeing with it. I haven't worked out the difference between his musing smile and his amused one yet. When I catch the impish gleam in his eyes, I know he’s taken my ribbing as playful, not bitchy.
"You of all people know you should never judge a book by its cover," he quips.
"Ha," I interrupt. "That's one of the most inaccurate statements in the writing world. Writers are always judged. Too many commas, not enough commas. Too much sex, not enough sex. Too much description, not enough description, and don't even get me started on the cover. Unfortunately, we live in a world full of critics."
“So you judge a person based solely on the clothes they are wearing?” His tone is a cross between curious and blunt.
“Not all the time, but for the majority, yes.” Wow, that even sou
nded snobbish to me.
Hunter briefly nods. “So what was your first opinion on me?”
“You weren’t exactly clothed at the time, so it doesn’t count.”
The grin on his face turns titanic. “So it was my nakedness that ignited your stalker obsession?”
I swallow a brick lodged in my throat from rehashing memories of his nakedness before replying. “Not exactly… It was your Adonis ass.”
The stranglehold on my throat lessens when Hunter’s chuckle booms around the interior of the car.
“I like you, Paige,” he chokes out between laughter.
“Yep. We’ve already established that.” That’s the reason you won’t touch me.
From the fire forming in my belly from his idolatrous glare, I wish I had more of a bitch gene. I like Hunter. He's a great guy. But I’ve never had this type of obsession with a guy before. It's consuming my every waking moment. Maybe it’s the thrill of the chase? I've never been turned down before so I don't have anything to compare it to. Since I was with Riley from the age of seventeen, it was normally me turning away tempting invitations, not inciting them.
My attention reverts from planning on ways to make myself less appealing to Hunter when he says, “I’m not in the telemarketing industry.”
I stray my eyes from the road to him, but remain quiet, leaving my interrogation cap where I removed it weeks ago; on the kitchen counter in my rental cabin.
Keeping his gaze planted straight ahead, he elaborates, “My boss has a very important asset attending the gala tonight. I’m to ensure she remains safe.”
My pulse quickens when his eyes turn to me; they are full of qualm and worry.
"I fucked up last month, and the consequences of my actions could have ended up a lot worse than they did. I'm endeavoring to make it up to my boss, but I can't do that without your help."
An inappropriately timed smile etches onto my face. I do not love that he made a mistake, but I'm delighted he needs my help.
“So you work in security?” I keep my tone low, feigning disinterest.
Hunter’s lips twist as he hesitantly nods.
“Do you carry a gun?” I flick my eyes between the road and him.
He takes his time configuring a response before he mutters, “Yes.”
“Cool,” I drawl out extravagantly. “Can I see your pistol?”
When he chuckles, the concern hampering his face fades. “Are we still talking about my gun?”
I sock him one right in the arm. “What happened to us being friends?” My playful tone hides my excitement.
Hunter smirks while running his hand over the edge of his jaw, but remains as quiet as a church mouse.
After a short moment of silence, he asks, "So what's your deal, Paige? Why books?" completely ignoring my friend's reference.
I twist my lips. "Name one other profession where you can talk to the voices in your head and not get thrown into a looney bin?"
His brows bow. "True," he says with a nod of his head, not fazed by my reference to being a little loopy. "I also guess you're an only child?"
“What makes you say that?” I ask through furrowed brows. Although his statement is accurate, I’m interested to find out how he reached his conclusion.
My pulse thrums in my neck when his murky blue eyes lock with mine. "We've been driving for nearly an hour, and you haven't stopped fidgeting. You're either an only child or the youngest member of your family. They always have the ants-in-the-pants type of personality."
I huff. “Or maybe I’m just horny,” I shoot back, my tone teeming with wit. “And all this squirming isn’t to settle the ants in my pants. It’s to stop the throbbing your sexy car is making the lower half of my body do.”
Blimey! Where did that naughty devil come from?
The beat of my heart merges into dangerous territory when Hunter’s thick fingers grasp the nape of my neck. My breathing shallows, and I freeze like an ice sculpture when the softness of his beard tickles the shell of my ear.
“Like my cock, you become stiff when you're horny. You fidget when you're excited,” he murmurs into my ear confidently.
My eyes stray from the road to him. "How do you know that?"
What he's saying is true. I’m not a person who fidgets when I’m nervous. I only do it when my insides are bursting with excitement. But the instant I step into the bedroom, my confidence falters, right along with my movements.
Time stands still when he mutters, “Because you're not the only one who’s been watching, Paige.”
My breathing returns in shallow pants when Hunter removes his hand from the nape of my neck and sits his Adonis ass back into the passenger seat.
"There's a gas station a quarter a mile out. Pull over, and we will swap places," he instructs, seemingly unaffected by our riveting exchange.
With my mouth refusing to articulate speech, I nod.
Two hours later, we are pulling into the long driveway of a posh hotel. Although the remainder of our trip was filled with conversation, we never ventured back over the friend's line Hunter drew in the sand weeks ago.
A grin curls on my lips when a valet opens my door and assists me out. “Welcome to the Wiltshire Hotel, Madame,” he greets me.
“Thank you,” I reply.
Lifting my eyes, I take in the impressive surroundings as I shadow Hunter to the check in counter. A few dozen people are milling around the expensive-looking checked marble floors and antique furniture. It only takes a matter of seconds for his attire to gain us the attention of numerous pairs of eyes. Even with the sleeves of his plaid shirt rolled down, the vast collection of tattoos on his hands and the one on the side of his neck are still prominent. But even being eyeballed like he's a circus act and not a man, Hunter's confidence doesn't falter the slightest. He's so comfortable in his own skin; he doesn't give two hoots about other people's opinions. That's a refreshing change in a world full of judgmental people, and it makes me like him even more.
My eyes bounce between Hunter and the desk clerk when she advises him his room is ready. “Was I supposed to book my own room?” I query, panicked I didn’t consider this earlier. I hope the hotel has a vacancy.
“My room is a two room suite,” Hunter advises my baffled expression. “If you don’t feel comfortable, I can book you your own suite.”
Smiling, I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. I’m more than happy to share your suite.” My words come out hoarse, strangled with excitement at spending more one-on-one time with him.
"It's a beautiful room," the desk clerk explains, turning her concerned eyes to me. "It has views of the skyline from both rooms, and the doors are lockable, so I’m sure you and your friend will be very comfortable and safe.”
When her eyes return to Hunter, they narrow into tiny slits. Returning the hotel clerk’s sneer, he snatches the keycard off the polished counter and ambles to the elevator. Unable to configure a reply to the hotel clerk’s bitterness, I give her the stink eye before shadowing Hunter to the elevator banks.
My jaw slackens when we enter the ginormous apartment-sized suite. “Wowsers, this place is huge,” I say, my eyes bugging as big as my mouth.
I grin like a kid in a candy store when Hunter flicks a button on the console at the side and the blinds covering the windows lift. My jaw drops lower the further the blind rises. The gorgeous city skyline scatters for as far as my eyes can see. Various sized buildings of architectural wonder fill my vision. As the lateness of the evening creeps upon us, smog hovers between the buildings. It's both an eerie and beautiful visual.
My attention diverts from the architectural wonder to Hunter when he says, “I’ve got to run an errand. Are you okay if I leave you here for an hour?”
I nod. “Sure. What time is the gala?”
A clink of laughter topples from my lips when Hunter pulls up the sleeve of his plaid shirt to check the tattooed Rolex on his wrist. After witnessing the grandeur of his house, car, and now this splendid hotel suite, I have no
doubt he could afford a real Rolex if he wanted one, but this way, in his eyes, it's always knock off time.
“It starts in around an hour.” He slides his sleeve back down.
Locking his eyes with mine he says, “Your room is on the right.” He points to a set of double doors. “I’ll be back in enough time to get ready before we have to go.”
I stiffen when he leans in and presses a quick peck to the side of my mouth. My rigid posture slackens when the hairs on his top lip tickle my nostrils. Imagine what it would feel like on more sensitive regions of the body? My stiff stance resumes.
“I’ll see you in a few.” Hunter grins before he spins on his heels and strolls out of the room without a backward glance.
I kick my shoes off at the entranceway and make my way to my bedroom. My toes dig into the plush carpet when I cross the expansive sunken living area. If I hadn’t seen the sign in the elevator advising the presidential suite was located on the top floor, I would have assumed this suite was it. It's massive. Body hugging sofas are scattered through the living area; thick, luxurious furnishings are draped over the floor-to-wall windows, and each piece of furniture looks like it was shipped here directly from France. It's gorgeous.
Lowering the gold embossed door handle, I swing open the white French door of my room. My breath snags halfway to my lungs when the enormity of the room smashes into me. It isn't just the sheer grandeur of the French-designed room that has my breathing faltering; it's the beautiful emerald green dress from the boutique store in Ravenshoe carefully strewn across the king-size bed.
My heart beats double time as I pad across the room. I run my sweat-slicked hands down my jegging-covered thighs before snagging a small envelope off the high thread count silk. I catch my lower lip with my teeth when my eyes speedread the card.
Wear this tonight.
Hunter.
My eyes roam over the dress, searching for the price tag. If it still has the tag attached, I could return it and get back the exorbitant four figure price Hunter paid for this dress. A sting of pain inflicts my bottom lip when I fail to locate the price tag. I leap out of my skin, and a curse word spills from my lips when my cell phone unexpectedly dings, indicating a text message. Because my jeggings don't have any pockets, I tucked my phone into the waistband of my pants, adding to my heart attack status. After gathering my heart off the floor, I yank out my phone and peer down at the screen.
