Hunter: No… I hate it when you use the word friend.
My pulse stutters. I stare at the screen, re-reading over and over. Is he…
Me: Oh…
Well, I guess that answers some of my confusion. Right? It has to. Doesn’t it?
“Madison.” My head snaps up, finding Mom standing at the end of the couch, arms crossed, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “Take the leap.”
I nod, sucking in a sharp breath. My thumbs hover for a moment, then fly over the screen.
Me: I hate using the word friend too but I’m scared.
His reply comes instantly, easing the nervous flutter in my stomach.
Hunter: I’m scared too.
Hunter: We could be scared together?
Me: I don’t know…
Hunter: I know it’s your night off, but come to the bar after closing tonight. Have a drink with me. Play a game of pool?
I bite the inside of my cheek, my hands shaking slightly as I type.
Me: Okay.
I glance down at my ripped denim shorts and off-white tank top, scrunching my nose. I’m going to need to go home and put myself together first. A sudden rush of excitement hits me, and I spring to my feet, folding the blanket neatly and draping it back over the couch. I reach for the TV remote, turning it off.
Spinning on my heel, I call out, “Hey, Mom!”
“Tell Hunter I said hi,” she shouts back from down the hall, laughing softly.
I grin, my chest fluttering, and take in a deep breath.
17
TO HELL WITH THE RULES
MADISON
I slip in through the back door of Whiskey Cove, the soft blue fabric of my dress lifting around my thighs as a gust of wind sweeps in behind me. My boots echo down the hall with each step I take. A low hum of music drifts in from the front, and I pause, checking the storeroom, kitchen, and office. Where is everyone?
The only car I saw when I arrived was Hunter’s, but usually, the guys are still around at this hour. I push through the door to the front of the bar. Chairs are stacked on the tables, and a sharp lemon scent hangs in the air, masking a night of alcohol, fried food, and sweat.
Hunter sits at the bar, in the same stools we shared that first night we talked. A whiskey in hand, a red wine waiting for me in front of him. A slow smile spreads across my face as I take him in. His thighs strain against his denim jeans, and the black fabric of his shirt hugs his chest and biceps. His jawline is sharp enough to cut, and my fingers itch to brush against it.
He hears me approaching and turns his head. His eyes trace me from head to toe, heat and something raw flicker inhis stare. His lips part slightly, and his shoulders tense, like he’s trying to stop himself from giving in to the pull between us.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, sliding onto the stool next to him.
“I sent them home,” he says, a slow smile tugging at his lips.
“Didn’t want to share me?” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
I glance away, heat flooding my cheeks. Where the hell did that come from? Being bold isn’t me anymore. That’s the old me. Hunter pushes the wine toward me, and I take it happily, lifting the glass in a long sip to calm my nerves.
“In case I haven’t made myself clear lately,” he murmurs, voice low, “I never want to share you.”
