Page 58 of Only the Hunter

What time is it?

I spot my phone, plugged in on the desk, and flip it over. Ten a.m. That’s not too bad. Given the time difference, it could be much worse.

I try to recall last night. We had drinks at the bar. And when we came up, it was still evening, earlier than I’d normally sleep, so I changed back into my comfy silk pajamas and laid back on the pillows, above the comforter, to close my eyes. Told him I’d take a nap and when I woke, we’d watch a movie or something to force myself to adjust to the time change.

I must’ve slept through them doing turndown service. I don’t recall a single dream. And I woke beneath the covers, which means Gabe must’ve put me there.

But where is he now?

I look down on the desk and read a handwritten note.

I’ve gone to the hotel gym. Ordered coffee and juice. Back soon.

There’s no time noted, but when he returns, he’ll need a shower. Within twenty minutes, I’m done with mine and dressed.

When I exit the steamy bathroom, I stop short.

Gabe stands at the French doors, phone pressed to his ear, backlit by the gray winter light off Lake Geneva. He’s in workout clothes—a fitted gray T-shirt dark with sweat at the spine and under his arms, and shorts that hit just above the knee. His hair, normally ruler-straight, curls at the nape and temples where perspiration has dampened it.

He shifts his weight, and I track the movement despite myself. The way the T-shirt pulls across his shoulders. The definition in his arms as he lifts one hand to scrub across the back of his neck. He’s always been lean, but he’s more defined than before. Sculpted. This is a different kind of alone than what we had growing up—no brother nearby, no parent down the hall. Just the two of us, and I rarely had the ability, or the excuse, to really look.

The muscles in his legs are distinct even in the dim light, his calves flexing as he rocks forward on the balls of his feet. When he half-turns, I catch the line of his profile, the hard angle of his jaw. There’s a coiled energy to him even standing still, almost predatory, definitely alert.

My pulse kicks into a higher gear—a fact I’d prefer to blame on the overly hot shower. Yesterday afternoon it felt like he might kiss me. He didn’t. I’ve got no business reading into it.

He turns fully, catching me mid-stare.

Heat blooms everywhere but especially on my cheeks as I force something resembling a neutral expression and casually stride to the coffee service.

“I’ll tell her,” he says into the phone, his voice that low rumble I’ve been trying not to notice, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. “I’ll keep you updated. Copy that. All communications through the secure app.”

He disconnects and gestures toward the bathroom. “You done in there?”

“It’s yours.” I concentrate very hard on pouring coffee.

“Won’t take me long.”

He moves past me, and I catch the scent of him—salt and exertion and something fundamentally male. The suite suddenly feels tiny.

I wait until I hear the bathroom door close before I release the breath I’ve been holding.

“Tell me what?” I call after him, proud that my voice sounds normal.

“We have a few addresses to check out today,” he calls back through the door.

“What are we looking for?” I’m hoping to find Lina today, but that’s going to require meeting my contacts in person to gain their trust.

“Checking to see if they’re legit. If they exist.”

Ah. Right. Shell companies are notorious for address ruses.

Geneva looks harmless in the daylight.

That’s the first thing I notice as we step out onto the street—how clean everything is. Trams slide past on schedule. Shoes click against wet pavement. No one rushes. No one lingers.

The air is cold enough that my breath mists. Gabe walks beside me, hands in his pockets, scanning the street with that quiet vigilance that’s very much Gabe.

He’s on edge, but Geneva strikes me as the kind of place where wrongdoing doesn’t overtly announce itself. It wears a suit. Files paperwork. Disappears politely.