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I blinked away the images. He held out the slice to me, his brows furrowed, his gaze locked on my face. “Sorry,” I mumbled, gently taking the piece of cheese-covered bread without touching him.
I desperately needed to get a hold of myself.
We fell into an uncomfortable silence where he passed me pieces of bread, cheese, and a glass of champagne. I tried to distract myself with the view, with the chirping of the birds, with the soft breaths of the horses behind us. It was enough to calm the stress of the curt glances and whispered gossip of the staff, as well as the worry about my father finding out. But it wasn’t enough to take me away from the insistent buzzing of the phone in my pocket.
Every hour on the hour at a minimum, he texted me.
I’d rather it was Hunter.
Each one was a demand or a warning about Hunter, a scare tactic to try to get me to put space between me and him. There was only one person I knew who would do something like this, whether out of spite or just sheer desperation to get me back—my ex. The one that had driven me out of the goddamn contiguous United States because I couldn’t bear the harassment. The one that made me feel ten inches tall for deciding that he was too much. The one who could jeopardize everything I would gain by doing this for Hunter.
“When you were a kid,” Hunter started, finally drawing my attention away from my spiraling thoughts, “what did you want to be when you grew up?”
Our eyes met as I dug through my mind, past the pool of stress and down further into the recesses, the bits I’d locked away for years. “A plastic surgeon,” I chuckled. “Mom wanted me to be a doctor. But I didn’t want to go into general medicine so I told her I’d specialize in plastic surgery instead. She thought it was the funniest thing ever. She told me I could do her Botox when she got old.” The grin I’d had slowly fell, the realization of why I’d locked that memory away hitting me hard. “Obviously, that wouldn’t have worked out.”
His lips formed into a fine line, a rare sincerity showing in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
I shrugged off his apology and downed the rest of my champagne, holding out the empty flute for a refill. “What did you want to be? CEO of the Harris agricultural empire?”
He laughed as he filled my glass. “Surprisingly, no.”
“What, then?”
“I wanted to be a chef, actually.” He leaned back on his elbows, his body angled toward me. It felt strange sitting up higher than him, as if he was bringing himself below me to prove some kind of point. “My mom was always the cook in the family. I took an interest when I was about seven, maybe? And it spiraled from there. Cooking, baking, broiling, smoking—making interesting flavor combinations was better than playing with any toy.”
The thought of a little version of Hunter adorned with a white apron and a chef’s hat nearly made me spit out the champagne I’d just sipped. “Sorry,” I said, wiping the dribble from my lips and calming the little giggle that had escaped. “Why didn’t you go to culinary school then?”
He rolled to his side and cast his eyes out toward the sun as it hovered just above the mountaintop. “I didn’t intend to abandon it. My father thought it would be beneficial to work for the company for a while to get some experience. But when I saw how poorly my brother was handling everything, I decided to stay on longer, and longer turned into never leaving.” His grip tightened around his champagne glass, and I noticed a ticking in his jaw. “So now I either take on the company for my father or watch my brother run it into the ground.”
I didn’t know what to think about what he had just shared with me. It made him appear more human, vulnerable, instead of the cocky playboy that I always saw him as. “That doesn’t sound like much of a choice.”
Slowly, he shifted his body again. He placed his head in the center of my crossed legs, right in my lap, as if it was the most natural thing he could’ve done. I didn’t move away and I couldn’t wrap my head around why. I didn’t mind the proximity of him, the warmth of him resting against my muck-covered overalls. It was… nice.
“It’s not,” he sighed. “But I’d rather take on the responsibility now and figure something else out down the line than let my father’s life’s work end with him.”
Before I could even comprehend what I was doing, my hand found itself in the short tufts of his hair at the top of his head. Each black strand was far too enticing, far too soft. Similar to what my exterior was becoming.
The feeling bubbling up inside of me was all too familiar. I knew damn well it was a curse and not a gift. I’d been burned harshly too many times before to let it fully develop again.
I would not allow myself to fall for Hunter Harris. I would not let him under my skin or between my sheets. There was something there, and that ticking clock would only get louder buried in the belly of a crocodile. I would fight it for six months, and then I would have my peace.
Make it through six months. That’s all I had to do. It couldn’t be that hard.
But the shimmer in his deep green eyes told me that I was in for more than I bargained for.
Chapter 11
Hunter
The ride back to the stables was much calmer than the ride to the lake. We took it slow even though the daylight was dwindling and we didn’t have much time until it would become difficult to see clearly.
Lottie’s poor attitude had subsided significantly. The weight that had slipped from my shoulders was a huge relief. I felt like I could take the first real breath of fresh air I’d had since Hawaii. We rode in a comfortable and easy silence. The only sounds were the occasional sigh from Darcy and Elizabeth, and the sound of hooves sloshing through the mud.As we approached the stable, I noticed it was quiet and empty. The evening lights were on but it appeared everyone had gone home. Is it that late? My inner thighs ached as I slid from Darcy, reminding me that I was out of practice with riding, and I made a mental note to work out my legs more often.
A vibration in the inside pocket of my jacket brought me back to the moment. I slid my phone out, wanting to check the time but also to see what the obnoxious buzzing was about.
“What is it?” Lottie asked, one thick braid flying over her shoulder as she looked back at me. “What’s that face for?”
Missed call after missed call littered my screen. Three from my father, ten from my brother, and at least a dozen from my assistant. I had no idea what face I was making, but clearly whatever it was conveyed just how worrying that was. “Something’s going on.”
