"Why yes, dear. This is our beloved grandson." I lick my lips nervously, and Hunter just nods slowly. The look of amusement on his face makes me want to sink into the floor.
"Yes," he says, holding his hand out. "Nice to make your acquaintance officially. I am Hunter Waverly."
"You're Hunter Waverly." I blink and think back to the conversation from this afternoon. I think back to every conversation we've ever had, and I want to fall to the ground and die because I'm more embarrassed than I've been in my life, and that's saying a lot because every time I have an interaction with Hunter, I always seem to make a fool of myself.
"Nice to see that your short-term memory is recovering." He smiles and turns to Emma. "Food looks good. Salad looks tasty, and those steaks look tender. I like mine rare."
"Don't worry," she grins. "Rare it will be."
"Thank you. Now, Grandma, Grandpa, everyone's waiting for us in the dining room. Shall we?" They beam at him and head out of the kitchen. I watch as they leave, and then he stops, turns around, and stares at me. “Back to work, Gina.” He winks and then walks out, and I want to scream. Instead, I turn to Emma. She looks as shocked as I feel.
"Fuck," I say loudly as she just shakes her head.
"Fuckity fuck, fuck, fuck."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Hunter
Gina Spellman had zero clue who I really was. The thought amuses me. The shock in her eyes when she found out that I am Enid and Preston's grandson was a sight to behold.
At first, I didn’t believe that she didn’t know, but when I saw the way her eyes had scurried from me to my grandparents and then back again, I knew she’d truly thought that I was the gardener, which tickles me pink, considering the reason I am really here.
Gina baffles me with her long dark hair and her bright brown eyes. She is the epitome of bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, though she has a little bit of an attitude. I am almost positive that she is crazy. She has to be. Who pretends they are in the FBI while standing in line at a coffee shop? No one but a crazy person. And then she'd gone on about her cupcake. I still feel guilty that I'd bought it and eaten it, though truth be told, it had been quite delicious.
When I saw her here at the estate, I thought perhaps she was following me. But then I remembered that my grandparents toldme they were hiring someone to act as a ghostwriter, and I knew that life was full of coincidences. So, the fact that Gina was the one that they hired didn't completely surprise me, though in the back of my mind I did wonder if she was some sort of spy for real.
But ditzy Gina, sexy Gina—she is no spy. She is just a confused woman, writing the love story for a couple that has been together for far too long. I love my grandparents. I really do. In fact, if it hadn't been for their union, I wouldn't exist. But there are oftentimes I wonder if their marriage was actually a marriage of love, if they are still deeply and truly emotionally connected, or if this was a relationship of convenience and wealth.
But I wouldn't dare say anything like that to them.
I sit on the edge of my bed and wish for a few moments that I could have kept Gina in the dark for a little longer. It’s been fun flirting with her and bantering back and forth, and I can't deny the fact that I am outrageously attracted to her, though that is a complication I don't need in my life.
She intrigues me. She intrigues me far more than any woman has in a long time, and I suppose, for that, I'm grateful.
I’ve thought that maybe I am immune to ever feeling attraction to a woman again. I’ve thought that some part of me is broken, that I am destined for a life where I would be with someone just because I’m supposed to be. Gina has made me realize that every single part of my body is still working, and working well. She’s made me realize that I’m capable of experiencing a gamut of emotions from desire to excitement again in my life.
I consider going up to the main house to see if she's wandering around in the kitchen in a short little T-shirt or maybe even trying to find her room. I could knock on the door and ask if she wants to talk about the revelation that cameout this evening. But then my brain screams that's a bad idea, because maybe then she'd ask about the dinner and why we were celebrating, and that is something I don't want her to know about.
As I grab a sweater and head to the main house, my phone rings.
I'm not sure who could be calling me. As I look at the screen, I don't recognize the number, but as a businessman who gets calls from all sorts of random people, I know I have to answer.
“Hello, this is Hunter Waverly.”
“Hunter, I'm so glad that I've got you on the line.”
“Who is this?” I ask cautiously.
“This is Ken Goring from Channel Six News.”
“How did you get my number?” I cut him off immediately.
“I want to know if you would like to release a statement. There are rumors circulating that—” I hang up before he can go any further. I run my fingers through my hair. I hate reporters with a passion. There's something about the way they twist words and situations to fit a narrative that has never sat right with me.
I don't want to be the next headline in the newspaper. I don't want people running with my story. For several reasons. A wave of irritation washes through me, and I decide to go for a walk. My good mood is gone. I'm not interested in seeing Gina right now. I'm not interested in flirting or answering any questions as to why I'm here or what I'm doing or anything. So, I leave my phone in the cabin and head out.
I walk down to the private beach so that I can stare at the stars. It's dark, and I close my eyes and just listen to the waves. The water is rough tonight. The sound of the water as it crashes into the rocks is calming.
