Why is he so judgmental? "Well, Hunter, my life has been kind of a pile of shit lately, and fine cuisine had to take a back seat."
"Understatement." He fishes a half-empty jar of jalapeños out of the fridge, drains the juice, and arranges them on our sandwiches. Then he pokes around in the crisper drawer and finds a container of deli ham I didn't even remember I had.
"But I'm thinking about going to culinary school," I say.
"I'm making a pretty damn nice grilled cheese without fifty grand in student loans," he says, giving me an infuriating wink.
"Uh huh," I say. "And for your information, you're making melts. Not grilled cheese."
"What's the fucking difference? Looks like a couple of damn grilled cheeses to me."
"A melt has extra toppings. You turned them into melts when you added the jalepeños."
He laughs, using a spatula to finish the sandwiches with the top pieces of bread. "Alright, genius, you got me. But seriously, just fucking open a restaurant. You're an amazing cook. Fuck expensive school."
It's something I've considered, and it's not a half-bad idea, but I'm not going to give Hunter the satisfaction. I'm already annoyed with myself that it's been six months since the divorce and I haven't had the guts to just quit my stupid Etsy business and pursue what I love. "We'll see," I say. "Worry about you."
He takes the sandwiches off the stove, slices and plates them, and we sit down opposite one another at the table. He hands me my sandwich, and it's cut into four triangles just the way I like it. "Oh," I say, surprised that he'd remember something like that. "Thanks."
His gaze pierces me.
"You're welcome. But the only thing I'm worried about is getting inside that sweet body of yours."
My muscles tense up, and I feel blood rushing into my center. I should be disgusted and offended at the way he's talking to me, but my body responds to his words in a way that it never did to Roger's. Or anyone else's.
"You literally just saw me two hours ago, by complete accident."
"So?"
"So that's not enough time to think about anything like that."
He laughs out loud. "Do you know anything about men?"
"Apparently not," I say, taking a bite of my piping hot melt. "Mmm," I say, temporarily distracted from our conversation. The bread crunches deliciously, perfectly buttery, the cheese rich and stringy. "This is actually really good."
He grins, wolfing down his melt. "I know a thing or two about improvising."
How long has it been since a man cooked for me? A long time, much less since a man cooked something good for me.
"Look," I begin. I try to sound confident and in control, but my eyes can't stop wandering over Hunter's strong jaw and chiseled chest. Every time my eyes meet his playful gaze, I instinctively look down again. I'm afraid that he'll see right through me. I feel my nipples stiffening in my shirt, my breasts aching for his hands.
"Look," I repeat, flustered. "It's just… the wrong time. I'm still putting my life back together. And you seem to forget that you already left me once. So I'd appreciate if you could just be here for me as my friend and leave it at that."
He shoves the last corner of cheesy crust in his mouth. "You sure about that?"
The truth is, I'm not sure at all. "Yes," I say. "Let's not make things any more complicated than they already are."
But I can't help thinking, what's really complicated right now? I've been separated from Roger for a while now, and my love life is nonexistent. And Hunter is the hottest guy this town has seen since… probably ever. We're two adults home alone. He's leaving town before long. And I could probably do him without getting too mixed up in feelings. What happened between us was a long time ago.
But it's too dangerous a game. Even though it was eight years ago, I still remember the heartbreak of him leaving. Right now I don't want to risk setting myself back by going through something like that again.
"It's cool," he says, washing his hands. He uses high-concentrate dish detergent to scrub his hands instead of regular hand soap. It's a wonder the man has any skin left on his knuckles at all.
He turns off the water and dries his hands on a dirty hand towel hanging on the fridge handle. "Long as you don't bring any other men back while I'm here, I can live with that." He winks at me.
"You know," I say, "Not that I have any intention of doing that, but this is my apartment. Stop telling me what to do in my own place."
"Even if it's for your own good?"
Asshole. "Even if," I say. I pull my cellphone out of my back pocket and check the time. 2:03 a.m.
I brush past Hunter and drop my crumby plate in the sink. "My house, my rules," I say. "And according to me, it's bedtime."
"Okay, mom," he says, leaning up against the counter as I rinse the plates. "I need to grab a shower."
"Straight down the hall, and there are towels in the hall closet."
"Clean ones?"
Ugh. "Yes."
Hunter laughs and shakes his head, then strolls out of the tiny kitchenette and down the hall. I hear the closet click open and closed, and then the bathroom door thuds shut and the shower starts running.
I sigh, rubbing my temples. I can't help thinking about Hunter in my shower. Heat surges through me and I take a deep breath to calm myself down.
What are the odds of running into him, the very first night I go out, the very first night he comes back to town in eight years?
And why, again, did I bring him to my house? Somehow, I always manage to put myself in the exact opposite of the situation I should be in.
On top of everything, I have to ship a big batch of orders tomorrow, and I'm all out of shipping supplies. I need to make an early-morning run to Wal-Mart in Springville to stock up, and then get to work.
I rub my temples, listening to the faint pitter-patter of the shower, and as I do, the sound of a vibrating phone interrupts my thoughts. It comes from the couch. When I investigate, there's an old flip-style phone which must be Hunter's. He hates technology, and I bet the phone is the exact same one he had back in high school.
Curiosity gets the best of me. I check the message preview on the external screen. It's from a "Tasha," and the message preview starts:
Can't stop thinking about the time we fucked in the
Something inside my stomach burns a little bit, and I toss the phone back on the couch without opening it to read the rest of the message. So he's got other girls. So what. Not my business. As if that wasn't painfully obvious from a single glance at the man.
But I can't help that I hate the thought of him with another woman, even though I shouldn't.
A minute later, Hunter emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel wrapped tight around his waist. He has a shredded six pack and a smooth, strong chest. I catch myself biting my lower lip.
He looks exactly like he did that night eight years ago. Only stronger and even more ripped. The muscles beneath his skin look hard like stone, like they were sculpted from marble.
"You're staring," he says, grinning at me again. I blush, feeling blood rush into my cheeks, and I force my gaze down to the carpet.
"I'm getting ready for bed," I say, and I hurry past him to the bathroom with my head down. I expect to find the bathroom floor flooded from the shower, but it's actually perfectly dry, and his clothes are folded up in a neat stack.
Maybe he did learn something in the SEALs.
I brush my teeth, floss, and wash my face. When I return to the living room, Hunter is sitting on my couch in nothing but boxer briefs. He's leaning forward, reading the back cover of a romance book that was sitting on my coffee table, an Isabella Starling novel. His thighs bulge with muscle, and I can't help wondering what it'd feel like to have one of those thick, strong thighs pressed between my legs. My nipples harden under my loose-fitting t-shirt, and I hope that the fabric is dark enough that he won't be able to see.
I need to get a grip.
"You know, this couch is really smal
l," he says. He lays back on it, his hard muscles flexing. He looks like a freaking model. But his legs hang off the edge of the couch by at least a foot, and suddenly I feel like a bad host. I told him he could stay with me, and now I can't even offer him a decent place to sleep.
"Sorry about that," I say. "You know what, I'll take the couch. You take the bed. I'll put fresh sheets on it."
He pivots to a sitting position and frowns. "I'm not putting you out of your own bed."
"It's fine," I say. "I just need to get to sleep."
He stands up, and I feel my breath go shallow as he gets closer to me. He puts a hand on my forearm, and it's like my lungs have suddenly shrunk inside my chest. "It's fine," he says, his eyes twinkling. "I'll take the floor."
"Excuse me?"
"Closest thing there is to a U.S. Government issued cot. Honestly, I don't know any other way to live anymore. I like it that way. Nice and hard."
I roll my eyes. "You're a weirdo."
"I mean, the bed would be better. But I doubt you'd be able to keep your hands off me."
"You're wrong," I reply.
"You know you miss the way we were together."
"You're delusional." I brush past him, my heart skipping a beat. I get fresh linens from the closet. I shove them in his chest. "Sweet dreams, asshole," I say.
He laughs and starts to spread the linens right in the middle of my living room floor.
I go to the bedroom, flip off the lights, and practically dive under the covers. I try to clear my mind, but I can't stop thinking about that man in the other room.
I don't know how I'm going to focus on anything with Hunter Thorne staying in my apartment.
4
Hunter
When I wake up in the morning, sunlight filters through the thin, cheap-looking floral blinds that Tess has hung in her apartment. My head throbs when the light hits my eyes, and I try to count the number of drinks I had last night.
I can't, so instead I groan and haul my ass out of my makeshift bed on Tess's floor. Wasn't bullshitting her about sleeping on the floor. It's great for the back.
I go to the window and hold my eyelids wide open to wake myself the fuck up. The sunlight slams into my retinas like a speeding car against a brick wall, but I welcome the pain. No quicker way to make it go away than to face it head on.
I start to brew some coffee and I think back to last night. I spot a couple plates in the sink, and remember the grilled cheeses—the melts—that I whipped up last night. And I remember pressing Tess's buttons, and being completely unable to keep my eyes off her. My cock stiffens in my jeans as I think about her.
What a gorgeous fucking bombshell. And what a crazy coincidence I'm here right now. I realize that I can't wait to see that girl this morning.
Not because I feel anything for her. Just because I like to wake up to eye candy, of course.
When the coffee is done, I pour a cup. I sink down into her couch, nursing my hangover, and flip through another romance novel I find on the coffee table. It's a paranormal romance called Unbearable Curves by Aya Morningstar, with a guy and a bear on the cover.
The fuck is this? I crack it open to a random page and read an excerpt:
Effie leaned forward, and suddenly there was an eyeful of cleavage in front of him. He strained to be a gentleman, to not look down. The bear shapeshifter inside him roared loud, and it forced him to check her out. This woman's—and not just a woman—his mate's—curves, were out of control.
I sit bolt upright on the couch and slam the book shut. People are into some really bizarre shit these days. I decide never to bring this up with Tess. Ever.
That's when I hear a door down the hall click open and closed. The shower starts running.
My coffee mug rests in my left hand, and my right hand wanders down to my jeans. I rub my hard cock through the denim, imagining the water cascading down Tess's naked body. I wonder what she'd think if she knew I was sitting here pleasuring myself to the thought of her washing herself.
I smirk. I hope she's doing the exact same thing in the shower.
A few minutes later, the shower turns off and Tess comes out, wrapped in nothing but a fluffy pink towel. Holy fucking shit.
"Look at you," I say with a wink. Her hair is glistening, and it wraps around her neck to her chest, tucked into the towel covering her breasts. My eyes follow her gorgeous auburn locks, and I take in the sight of her figure. "I could get used to waking up to this."
She blushes. "It's not much to look at. But don't get used to it. You're here for three weeks, right?"
"Thereabouts," I say. "And you're absolutely fucking gorgeous."
Her gaze falls, and her face reddens further. She changes the topic. "Why are you here, anyway?"
"Pay off a few debts. Tie up loose ends."
"Whoever you owe money to probably needs it. The economy here isn't exactly booming."
"Yeah," I say. "I noticed when I rode in last night. The old Woolworth's is a call center now. Shitty."
"Yep. The population is shrinking, ever since they built the new highway out to Springville."
I nod. That's the way of things these days. Big towns get bigger, and small towns get smaller.
"In ten years, there might not even be a Maple Ridge anymore," says Tess. She wrings out her hair, and water drips down onto the towel covering her body. I bite the corner of my lip, then take a swig of coffee to try to act normal. When I'm not six drinks deep, I at least try to keep it classy.
I never felt a real sense of attachment to this place, probably because all my childhood memories are of my mom running around with a bunch of loser boyfriends and my dad being deployed abroad. But it's still my hometown, after all. "Shame," I say. "Maybe something'll come through and turn it around."
Tess shrugs. "I wouldn't count on it."
"Yeah," I say. "Guess not."
She goes back into the bedroom to get dressed, and I watch her ass under that towel as she walks down the hall. I just want to pin her against the wall, press her chest flat against the hallway, and yank that towel up so I can slide my aching hard cock between her legs. I fucking know she'd be wet for me.
I pour another cup of coffee and open the blinds completely, letting sunlight flow in and freshen the place up. I can tell this apartment hasn't gotten much sun since Tess moved in.
When Tess comes back, she's wearing a v-neck t-shirt over casual bright blue shorts that hug her curves just right. "I have to head down to Wal-Mart," she says. "I need packing supplies."
I take a look around the apartment. Brown cardboard boxes everywhere, blocks of wax, blocks of glycerin, molds with all kinds of shapes. I give Tess a hard stare. "What the hell are you doing with your life?" I ask, leaning against the entrance to the kitchenette. "Seriously. This isn't what you should be doing."
She turns pink and frowns. "Thanks for the news. I'm so glad you're here to tell me that."
"That doesn't mean I'm wrong."
"Maybe it's hard for you to understand, but sometimes life happens. I'm thinking about getting into the restaurant business. But it's a big deal. And I've got bills to pay."
"I just remember how bad you wanted it before."
"You know," she snaps, "it's really none of your business."
"All I'm saying is I've seen a lot of shit in the last eight years. Life is too short to fuck around doing anything except what you love."
"Is that right? Is that what you're doing?"
"Yes, actually. Getting the fuck out of here and going up to Alaska. You should figure your shit out, too. I say that as a friend. Tough love."
"Damnit, Hunter," she says, and her face gets rosy pink. She looks so damn dainty and cute when she's mad, and I can just picture those lips wrapped around my cock. "As if you know anything about love."
I shrug and down the rest of my second coffee.
For the next few days, me and Tess are constantly at each other's throats. About everything. The stupidest shit imaginable. She wants to order
in pizza, I want to go out for Chinese. She wants the heat on, I want the A/C. She wakes up early, I sleep in late. It wasn't ever like this when we dated in high school, but shit, we were completely different people back then.
It's not like I pride myself in being a prick to her. But the girl has so much damn potential, and it's so obvious she's not happy doing what she's doing. She was always in her true element while concocting new creations in the kitchen, planning out how she'd manage her own place, dreaming of opening a cozy little cottage restaurant right here in Maple Ridge. She always loved this town more than I did. But shit. I guess with the town slowly evaporating, even that's a pipe dream these days.
One afternoon, three or four days after our argument, she catches me when I'm out in the apartment complex's parking lot, working on my bike and getting it ready for my upcoming cross-country trip. It's a sunny but cool day, the oaks and shrubs around the complex blocking out the sun and keeping it comfortable. The kids are out of school for the summer, and they're the only critters making any sounds. Everyone who walks past is friendly as can be. It's a picture-perfect, lazy small-town day.
"Hey," she says, and I look up from where I'm kneeling.
"How can I help you?" I ask. I'm shirtless, and I can't help noticing her eyes wander down my grease-streaked abs. Yeah. I look good. I know it, and she knows it, whether she likes it or not.
"There's a town hall meeting tomorrow," she says. "Wanted to see if you want to come."
"What's the topic?"
"Small business initiatives."
I smirk. "So you decided to listen to me."
She rolls her eyes. "No, it's a thing I've been thinking about for a while. They're bringing in some investor types. A few aspiring small business owners are going to give pitches, and they're supposed to pick one to fund. I signed up to present."
"Oh yeah? What about going to fancy-ass culinary school?"
She folds her arms. "You just want me to say that you were right."
I laugh and she looks offended. "The hell do you mean?"
Fake Bride With Benefits Page 4
