Knock, knock.
Flat on my back in bed, I chew my lip with my eye on my bedroom door as I consider ignoring it. I could, but I won’t. That would prove to Hunter—and myself—that what I’ve spent the last several minutes doing is less about catching up on lost sleep than hiding from him.
I get up from my bed, tugging the rising hem of my t-shirt as I cross the room to find out what Hunter wants, and it’s him. I feel it. My heart pounds with every step, and my hand shakes when I lift it to the doorknob.
You’re just answering a door. That’s it. Things don’t have to be strange or awkward because you ground your pussy against his thigh until you came and he?—
Stop. Stop that right now.
My body is hot, my panties are wet, and my cheeks are burning, thoughnotwith embarrassment. I’m a thousand percent aroused all over again.
Knock, knock.
“You okay, Maisie?” Hunter calls out, sounding worried.
He’s out there thinking something is wrong with me while I’m in here telling myself not to jump him the moment I pull my door open.
Without thinking too much about what I look like and what he might have come to my room for, I open the damn door.
Hunter, showered and dressed in a white t-shirt and low-slung black sweatpants with the ends of his dark-blond hair still damp, must have given up hoping I’d open up because he’d half-turned as if ready to leave. This is the first time I’ve seen his hair not up in the messy bun I’d gotten used to when he’d stop in for lunch at the diner. It’s a little shorter than my shoulder-length, darker when wet, and I can’t stop wanting to lean in closer because it smells like coconut, and Ilovecoconut.
“Hey.” His indigo eyes go on an achingly slow, deliberate, and pussy-twitching journey over my body before he wrenches them up. His gaze slips past me to linger on something behind me.
Curious about what caught his attention, I peer over my shoulder, wincing at my bed. The comforter hangs off it, half on the floor. “Sorry,” I tell him automatically. “I’ll make the bed.”
As I’m apologizing for my unmade bed, I remember the mess I left in the kitchen. Making pie to say thanks loses a lot of its appeal if you leave the cleanup to the people you made the pie for.“About the mess in the kitchen…” I edge to the left, blocking the shameful state of my bed.
Hunter wrenches his gaze to my face, his cheeks pink as if embarrassed to have been caught staring. He shoves both hands into his pockets and clears his throat. “Uh… I used to live in a house full of surfers. I’ll take an unmade bed over the nasty stuff I saw on a daily basis. Can we talk?”
Torn between asking him what it was like living with a bunch of surfers, why he moved out—was it the mess?—and why he was staring at my bed if it wasn’t in disapproval, I step aside insteadof leaving him hovering outside my room. “You can come in if you want?”
His gaze lingers on my unmade bed. The shield behind his eyes lifts, and I see what I missed before.
In the kitchen, while I was making a mess, baking up a storm, I pulled the last pie from the oven. As I removed my mitts, I felt someone staring at me. I convinced myself it was in my head; it was too early for anyone to be awake, and I’d have heard them walk down the stairs. But I’d still turned, my instincts screaming that I wasn’t alone.
Hunter had his head against the doorway, powerful arms folded over a tanned, muscular chest. A soft smile played on his lips, and his eyes burned as he watched me. Even his“hey”had felt more heated than a simple greeting would ordinarily be.
Then I caught the tent in the front of his briefs, and all rational thought emptied out of my head. That must’ve been why I thought it was a good idea to move a hot pie pan, fresh out of the oven, along the kitchen counter with the back of my hand.
He had looked like he wanted me.
Me.
Maisie, who had never been and could never be the wife Derek wanted.
Maisie, who was too stupid to do anything right.
Maisie, who hadn’t felt wanted or beautiful in far too long.
Now he’s looking at my unmade bed as if he’s mentally stripped the clothes from my body and has me pinned down on it. Not as if he’s judging me for being a twenty-six-year-old woman who leaves a trail of mess in her wake.
Withhunger.
“Hunter?”
Dark-blue eyes snap to my face. He catches me looking at him, and his next smile is sheepish as he scratches his hair.“Shit. Sorry.” He takes a step back as he focuses on me. “That’s, uh, probably not a good idea. How about we talk out here?”
If I were braver, I would tell him I want him as much as he seems to want me. “Sure.”
