Page 28 of Hunter

I watch him out of the corner of my eye. The way the T-shirt slips off one shoulder and his sweats seem to cling to the globes of his ass muscles. The way his painted nails tap against the coffee cup like he’s nervous but trying not to show it.

I want to know more.

All of it. What he looks like when he’s happy or sad. Or bored. Or horny. What his fucking mouth tastes like after he has coffee.

The thought hits me low and hot, twisting in my gut. I shouldn’t be thinking about his mouth. I shouldn’t be noticing how the sweatpants hug his ass when he turns to grab a napkin. I shouldn’t be imagining what that soft voice would sound like moaning my name instead of telling me I don’t have to leave.

I shove all of those thoughts away.

A loud, insistent banging on the door makes both of us jump.

Charlie freezes, then lets out a small, resigned sigh. “That’s Lucy.”

Before I can ask who the hell Lucy is, he crosses the room and opens the door.

A woman in neon leggings bursts in like she’s storming a barricade, a paper bag in one hand and pure panic on her face.

“Charlie! You didn’t text me back! I thought you were kidnapped or murdered or—oh my God, who the fuck is that?”

Her eyes land on me, half-naked standing next to her friend—and go wide. She looks back at Charlie, mouth opening and closing.

“You didn’t…”

Charlie shakes his head quickly, cheeks flushing. “No. I didn’t. He…had a rough night. I brought him here so he wouldn’t pass out on the sidewalk.”

Lucy’s gaze snaps back to me, narrowing. She takes in the fresh bandage on my shoulder, the empty coffee cups, the obvious mess I am, and her expression hardens.

“Time to go,” she says flatly, marching over to the coffee table, snatching my shirt off it, and tossing it at my chest. “Shoes. Now. Out.”

I catch the shirt, blinking through the hangover fog. “Who the fuck are you?”

“His best friend,” she snaps, already pointing at my shoes by the door. “And I’m not letting some random guy crash here after a group session. Charlie’s been through enough without becoming someone’s emotional support human at 11 a.m. Shoes. Door. Goodbye.”

Charlie nibbles on his lower lip but doesn’t argue with her. He just stands there, arms crossed, looking equal parts embarrassed and resigned.

I pull the shirt over my head, wincing as it drags across the fresh bandage, then shove my feet into my shoes. Sofia gives me one last betrayed look before hopping off the couch and slipping under the bed.

Lucy holds the door open, eyes hard. “Don’t come back, unless you’re all over your trauma and healed.”

I pause in the doorway, shoulder throbbing, head still pounding, and look back at Charlie one last time.

He’s watching me. A little furrow of his brows, with what might be concern, his lip still captured between his teeth. Something in my chest twists hard—protective, possessive, and ugly all at once.

I don’t say anything.

I just step out into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that sinks into me.

Chapter 11

Charlie

The second the door clicks shut behind Hunter, Lucy spins on me like I just invited a serial killer in for tea.

“What the fuck are you thinking?” she hisses, eyes wide. “Are you trying to get murdered? That guy looked like he could bench-press a subway car and then throw it fifty feet just for fun. And you brought him home? To your apartment? With your tiny bed in the corner and your cat who apparently has zero survival instincts?”

I rub the back of my neck, suddenly very aware of how small my studio feels with both of us in it. “He was drunk and throwing up in a dumpster. I couldn’t just leave him there.”

Lucy throws her hands up. “Yes, you could! That’s what normal people do! They call a cab or an Uber or literally anything that doesn’t involve bringing the six-foot-four rage monster home with them!”