by Noelle Adams
What I said was, “You’re late.”
He laughed in a way that was both warm and lazy. “I guess you’re one of those girls.”
“What girls?”
“The ones who are always on time and have their shit together.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or amused or thrilled that he seemed to really see me, so I said rather primly, “I try my best.”
“I bet you do.”
I didn’t know what to make of those words, and remembering them now, I’m still not sure what Hunter might have been saying about me back then. But I left that first tutoring session with a serious crush.
“Hi,” I say at last to the sexy bearded man in front of me. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“I recognized you.”
Of course he did. I look the same as I did in high school. Dark blond hair, gray eyes, even features, low-maintenance appearance. He might have changed, but I haven’t.
“It’s good to see you,” I say, feeling more awkward than I expected. We’d fallen into writing those letters naturally, easily, like we were still the same friends from high school. But he doesn’t feel like high school Hunter at the moment. He feels... different, and I’m acutely conscious of his strong, masculine body.
It’s so big. Tall frame. Broad shoulders. Firm abs beneath his black shirt. His hips are lean, and his thighs are huge beneath the worn fabric of his jeans.
He’s man. All man.
Despite my resolve to be smart and reasonable, my body definitely notices his.
“You wanna hug?” he asks in a gravelly voice, his eyes scanning my face with disturbing scrutiny. “Or you wanna sit?”
I’m momentarily torn.
I do kind of want to hug him. Who wouldn’t want to press her body all up against his? But I have a feeling that would do very dangerous things to my equilibrium. So instead I give him a wry smile. “Let’s sit,” I say. “Since I barely recognized you, I’m not sure we’re at the hugging point yet.”
He gives a huff of amusement and puts a hand on my back to point me toward the counter.
I like the feel of his big warm hand on my back.
Things aren’t going well for my equilibrium.
I breathe deeply and give myself a firm mental lecture.
I’m smart. I’m sensible. I’m a grown-up now and not a teenager.
I’m not going to fall for this guy again. He’s never going to be anything more than a friend to me.
Shit, he even smells good. A faint mingling of leather and the outdoors.
He’s got those same blue eyes I used to love in high school.
But I’m smart now. If nothing else, I’ve always been smart.
I’ve talked myself back into reasonableness as we reach the counter. He orders a black coffee, and I ask for a caramel mocha (extra whipped cream on top). The corner of his mouth goes up when he hears my order, as if it amuses him, and he pays for both drinks.
Caramel, chocolate, coffee, and whipped cream is a comforting combination. I sip it as we find a table in the corner.
I’m strong. I’m smart. I’m not going to be swept off my feet by a hard body and a pair of sexy, heavy-lidded eyes.
“So how are you?” he asks after we sit down. He keeps one hand wrapped around his coffee cup on the table, and I see the lines of a dark tattoo on his forearm. It’s turned away from me, so I can’t make out the design.
I know he has tattoos because I asked him about them in our letters. He didn’t have tattoos back in high school, so I’ve never seen them before.
“I’m doing good,” I say, smiling and forcing all fluttery feelings into a tight ball at the back of my mind. “I told you all about myself in the letters.”
I wonder if he remembers every small detail about the letters like I do.
“Yeah, but you never told me things I wanted to know.”
“Like what?”
“Why are you still in school?”
I blink at the abrupt question. “Because I’m still working on a degree.”
“I know that. But why? What good are three degrees gonna do you?”
It’s a good question, and not one I have an easy answer to. “I don’t know. I just want to do them. I love school.”
“You always did.” His eyes are resting on my face, and it’s unnerving. Like he can see things he shouldn’t be able to see.
“Yeah. So I’m going to keep at it until I find something else I want to do more.”
“So you’re happy?”
It’s another abrupt question. A surprising one. I have no idea how to answer it.
His eyebrows lift when I don’t respond.
“Y-yeah,” I finally say. “I am.”
“You don’t sound sure. And I could never tell from your letters.”
This is not at all the way I expected this conversation to go. I thought Hunter and I would have a casual conversation filled with small talk and personal updates—kind of like our letters, which felt special to me but were definitely not intimate.
I’m not expecting this kind of gruff soul-searching.
It’s unsettling.
Disorienting.
“I don’t know,” I say, telling him the truth because I’m too flustered to do anything else. “I am happy overall. I’m fortunate in a lot of ways, so I’d never complain. But doesn’t everyone have certain things they want but don’t have?”
He’s quiet for a moment. Then, “Yeah.”
“So I guess it’s that way with me. Generally, I’m happy. There are some things that...” I trail off, thinking of my lunch with Pop and how my most exciting experiences are ones I’ve read about.
“What things?”
I don’t know why I tell him—I hardly know this man anymore—but the words come out anyway. “Sometimes it feels like I’m just... observing life from the outside. Not actually living it.”
This appears to surprise him. His eyebrows draw together. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Pop is always bragging about how I’m such a good girl. I don’t get in trouble. Don’t cause any scenes. Don’t embarrass him in any way. I guess it’s starting to bother me a little. The reason I’m a good girl is because I don’t ever take any risks.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know.” I sip my drink, the sweet heat hitting my tongue, sliding down my throat, warming my body. “But there are things I want to do, to... to experience, and I haven’t even started.”
“Things like what?”
My spine stiffens. “Has anyone ever told you that interrogating an old friend five minutes after seeing her again is kind of annoying?”
He chuckles, and it’s the sexiest sound I’ve ever heard. Warm and throaty and textured and sensual. “Why? Shouldn’t I want to know how you’re doing? For real, I mean. Not just what you want to tell me in writing.”
“I guess, but most people don’t dig quite so deep so quickly.”
“Most people are cowards.”
I stare at his broad, bearded face, and the words hit me hard.
He’s right.
Most people are.
I am.
“What?” His eyebrows draw together again. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No. You said something right. I guess I’m a coward. That’s why I never do things I really want to do. That’s why I never feel like I can really live life.”
“So do things. Do them now.”
“It’s not always that easy.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m not even sure what I want.”
“I am.”
I stiffen. “You are not. You have no idea what kinds of things I might want for myself.”
“I do too. You told me in the letters.”
“I never told you—”
“I can read between the lines.”
I roll my eyes at his obnoxiously entitled tone and expression. “Okay, fine. So tell me one thing you think I want that I don’t have.”
&
nbsp; “Hot sex.”
I stare at him, frozen and washed with waves of heat.
“What?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows. “You told me to tell you one thing.”
“I never... I never wrote anything like that in my letters!”
“Not directly, but it was clear. When you talked about that guy you were dating. Tell me I’m wrong.”
He’s not wrong. I’ve had sex before. I’ve had three boyfriends in my life, and I had sex with all three of them. The sex was fine—sometimes good and sometimes okay. Never really hot.
Never as good as what I read about.
“Fine.” I meet his eyes, my expression challenging. I’m not going to cave to this man, even if his unrelenting gaze is rousing flutters in my belly and a different kind of pressure even lower. “Maybe I wouldn’t say no to hot sex, but it’s not something I can just walk out and get.”
“Why not? Just find a guy to have hot sex with you.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say. Where am I supposed to find this guy?”
He makes a gesture around the coffee shop. “Plenty of ’em around.”
“But they’re not going to want to have sex with me.”
“Yeah, they will.”
Okay, now those flutters have turned into tornadoes. I’m having trouble not panting audibly.
How is Hunter doing this to me?
I’m supposed to be a such a smart, calm person, but I feel like giggling and gasping and hauling him into a kiss.
All at once.
“While I appreciate your show of faith in my desirability, I have not found that to be the case. I’m not the kind of girl that guys want to screw.”
“You’re wrong.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, they’ve never indicated that to me. Are you really going to argue that guys have been hiding all kinds of raging lust for me all this time, and I’m just too blind to notice it?”
“Maybe.”
“Whatever. But anyway, that’s just one thing.”
“I can tell you other things if you want to know.”
“Other things? You’ve got some sort of list of things you think I want? Based on those silly letters I wrote.”
“They weren’t silly, and I was payin’ attention.”
I’m feeling fluttery in a different way now. Could he really have read my letters so closely he could pick up on things I never wrote of directly? “So what things do you think I want to do?”
“Ride a motorcycle. Learn to dance. Go on trips. Have a romantic weekend at a bed-and-breakfast. Get a tattoo. Get married.”
“How do you know I want to get married?” I’m not sure why I fixate on that item, since the whole list is so entirely accurate it takes my breath away.
“You told me.”
“I never—”
“A few months ago you were talking about that couple you saw in the grocery store who were shopping for dinner. Remember?”
I do remember, and I can’t believe now I shared something like that with him. They’d just been a young couple, shopping together for something to make for dinner, and I’d had this poignant awareness that I’ve never had an experience like that. Not with my boyfriends. Not with a husband. Not ever.
I can’t believe Hunter remembers.
Deciding I’ve shared my soul for long enough, I say, “Okay. Fine. You picked up a few things. And I’ll admit that part of me feels like I’m not really living life, and I do want to do that. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Tell me about you. Are you happy?”
Hunter stares at me for a long moment. “No,” he says at last. “I’m not.”
“Well, you’re out on parole now. Things are going to get better.”
“Maybe.”
“Why maybe?”
“Because if I don’t get a job and a place to live, they’re not going to let me stay out.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Now I’m going to have to tell him what Pop said.
The mood between us has shifted completely. I’m sure my issues are real and natural, but they’re nothing at all like what he’s dealing with. “Pop said no about the job.”
His expression doesn’t even flicker. “I knew he would. I told you not to bother asking.”
“I thought it was worth a try. Pop believes in nepotism. But he’d only give you a job if you were my husband or something. An old friend isn’t enough.”
“It’s fine. I’ll find something.”
I hate the resignation I see on his face. Hunter has always been so strong and independent, but he needs something right now. Needs it desperately.
And I can’t help him at all.
Then I remember a stray detail from earlier in the conversation. “What do you mean if you don’t find a place to live? I thought you were moving in with Keith. Isn’t that what you told me in your last letter?”
“Yeah. He was going to let me live with him, but his girlfriend just moved in and doesn’t want me there after all. Can’t blame her.”
“Oh no. I wish you could move in with me. I’ve got a spare room, but Pop pays my rent, and he’d never allow it.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t imagine he’d want an ex-con movin’ in with his perfect, precious granddaughter.”
“It’s not just that you’re an ex-con. It’s that you’re a man. He’s as old-fashioned as they come. He’d only be okay with a man living with me if we were married. Otherwise, he’d stop paying the rent.”
“Makes sense. I wasn’t lookin’ to move into your spare room. I’m not lookin’ for favors from you.”
He’s obviously trying to make me feel better, but I still sense a helplessness underlying his casual demeanor that breaks my heart.
I have no idea how it would feel to be in his situation, but I have a great imagination and I’ve read thousands of books. I know how to feel for other people, and I’m feeling for him now.
Deeply.
“Stop,” he mutters.
“Stop what?”
“Stop feeling sorry for me.”
“I’m not. You’re my friend, aren’t you?”
“I hope so.”
I take a big swallow of my mocha and then wipe the whipped cream from my lip. “If we’re friends, then I’m allowed to feel bad if you feel bad, right?”
“I guess so. As long as it isn’t pity.” His voice is still light, but there’s a tension in his shoulders and jaw that proves he means it.
He means it.
“It’s not,” I say.
He nods. We’re both silent for a minute. Then he suddenly stands up from the table. “Come on.”
I blink up at him. “Come on where?”
“Let’s go do something.”
I’m standing up too, finishing my coffee as he takes my arm and pulls me toward the door. “What are we going to do?
“You’ll see.”
He’s bigger and rougher and gruffer than he used to be, but he’s still the same Hunter. Laid-back. Teasing. Scarily observant. Sometimes laughing on the inside and sometimes heartbreakingly vulnerable.
He reaches over my shoulder to open the door for me, and then he holds it open for an elderly lady who is leaving with a tray of four coffees and a book tucked under one arm.
The book slides down to the sidewalk as she walks, and Hunter leans down to pick it up for her. He gives her a little grin as he hands it to her. “Here y’go, ma’am.”
The woman accepts the book with a smile and keeps walking. And I’m suddenly frozen as emotion rolls over me in waves.
He’s always been like this—sweet and almost earnest underneath the surface. Always trying to be nice, to work hard, even as he pretends not to care.
How the hell did he end up in prison?
He’s walked up to me now, and he’s giving me a questioning look. I know I should smile, relax, fall in step beside him again, but the questions are too big, too deep. And they come out of my mouth before I can stop them
. “What happened, Hunter?” I ask in a soft, stretched voice, putting my hand on his arm.
His expression changes, and he grows still. “What do you mean?”
“What happened?” My voice breaks on the last word. “You never would tell me.”
He’s silent for a minute. Then I see and hear him release a long breath. “I had a huge fight with my father in college. He ended up kicking me out. Cutting me off. I told you about that. Well, I was hurt. Angry. Really... hurt. So I lashed out in any way I could. At first, I just... partied too hard. Drank too much. I was living with friends, and I thought I was having fun.”
“How did you get into crime?” We’re still standing on the sidewalk, having a very intimate conversation on a public street.
He shrugs. “It’s stupid. Embarrassing. You’ll think I’m...”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You remember Johnny Gentry from school?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“He’d gotten involved in this shady deal moving stolen cars, and he got in over his head. Way over his head. He was in big trouble with the wrong guys. He knew I was good at numbers and fixing books, so he... he talked me into helping. I wanted to help him get out from under those guys and also...”
“Stick it to your dad.”
“Yeah. Pretty much. I told you it was embarrassing. I did that for a long time. The funny thing is I was good at it. I was really good at the money stuff—hiding the paper trail, adjusting accounts, all that. I... enjoyed the actual work, although I knew it was a mistake as soon as I started.” He shakes his head and slants me a wry look. “Anyway, I got caught. I think they went after me because they thought I was the easiest target. They wanted to use me to bring down the whole ring. Offered me a sweet deal and everything.”
“Oh God, Hunter,” I breathe. “You refused, didn’t you?”
He looks away from me and rubs his beard with one hand. “Yeah. He might have been a stupid asshole, but Johnny was my friend. So I got stuck with prison time.”
He evidently believes this story will make me think less of him, but it doesn’t. At all.
He’s still shooting me little looks, like he’s trying to figure out my impression of him, and I can’t possibly let him know that I want to kiss him right now more than anything.
