‘Officially at eleven when I got suspended from middle school the first week for setting a fire in my homeroom teacher’s trash can.’ Hunter’s twist of a smile spoke volumes. ‘But by then I’d already become the kid other parents warned their sons and daughters to stay away from.’ Lumped in with the studentswho were disciplinary nightmares, he lived down to everyone’s expectations, and the minor vandalism and end of term pranks soon escalated.
‘I was in and out of the school’s alternative learning centre for students who break zero tolerance rules for drug and alcohol use.’ He shrugged. ‘I was the life and soul of all the illicit teenage parties, my folks’ drinks cabinet was fair game and I dabbled with my mom’s prescription painkillers for a while.’
Now his revulsion towards the medications she’d offered made far more sense.
‘That’s when we came to London with my dad’s job. My folks hoped the change might straighten me out but it didn’t work. I’m guessin’ my next stop would’ve been prison but in a last ditch effort Dad went against my mom’s wishes and packed me off to one of these tough schools that resemble Marine Corps boot camps. The idea is they sort out wayward kids by strict discipline.’ His face darkened. ‘Greystone, where Johnny and I ended up, was nothing short of legalised bullying.’
Laura couldn’t hide her shock.
‘Said you wouldn’t want to hear all this, didn’t I? It’s not pretty.’ He fixed his bright blue eyes on her. ‘You want me to keep goin’?’
Rain beat against the window and a rumble of thunder echoed in the distance. A loud crack of lightning startled her but Hunter turned white and gripped the edge of the table.
‘You’re not keen on storms?’
‘Is anyone?’
Before she could answer the lights popped and the house plunged into darkness. ‘Ouch.’ Hunter grasped her hand and his fingers dug into the soft flesh.
‘Sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘No, it’s not I’m—’
‘—I’ve got candles and torches but I need to find them.’ Laura heard him hyperventilating. ‘I’m letting go now because I need you to cup your hands in front of your mouth and breathe very slowly, preferably from your diaphragm rather than your chest.’
‘I . . . can’t . . .’ Hunter’s panic rose.
‘Yes you can.’ She repeated her instructions and after a few agonising seconds his frantic attempts to draw in air quietened. Only when his breathing sounded normal did she dare to move, continually talking through where she was and what she was doing in an effort to reassure him.
Fumbling for the cupboard door she found the large torch she stowed there and prayed the batteries were good. ‘Keep your fingers crossed.’ The glare illuminated Hunter’s strained features and she swept the beam away from him. With the torch set upright on the counter she found a bag of red candles and a box of matches. ‘Here we go.’
‘Can I help?’
‘That would be great.’ Laura dumped several china saucers in front of him. ‘We’ll have to stick them on these because my proper candle holders are packed away with the Christmas decorations in the attic.’ He fumbled over lighting the first one but steadied down as the room became brighter. ‘There, that’s better.’ She flicked off the torch.
‘It sure is. Sorry. I can’t handle the dark or confined spaces.’ His grimace of a smile almost made her laugh but she resisted, afraid he’d take it the wrong way and think she was laughingathim instead ofwithhim. She didn’t want him to feel obliged to explain his anxieties but, considering she’d ordered him to bare his soul, what choice did they have?
* * *
Even though this part of his plan was unintentional he must have blown apart any lingering attraction Laura felt for him with that pitiful exhibition. Hunter wished the candlelight didn’t enhance her loveliness quite as much. It would be easier if the gold flecks in her eyes didn’t sparkle and if loose, touchable strands of hair hadn’t worked free from her tight ponytail.
‘What work do you do back in America?’
‘Work?’
‘Yes, you know the thing that pays the bills and if you’re lucky you actually enjoy?’ Her snappy response made him smile against his will. This woman was an expert at catching him out.
‘I own a company that builds custom-designed log cabins out of repurposed wood. We source our materials from derelict buildings, mostly in the south-eastern United States.’
‘Really? How did you get to doing that from . . .’
‘. . . being a no good dropout?’
‘I wouldn’t phrase it quite that way.’
Hunter shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s the truth. At Greystone we did regular lessons but also had the option to take a variety of trade classes.’ He fiddled with the box of matches. ‘Larry Jett, the woodwork teacher didn’t put up with any crap and told us all if we wanted to waste time and screw around that was our choice. He wasn’t the one destined to end up unemployed, homeless and in prison.’ Trying to explain Larry’s influence wasn’t easy. ‘Jett helped me realise that without a well-rounded education I’d get nowhere and through working with my hands I discovered the redemptive power of creating something lasting.’ It sounded corny but she deserved the truth.
