“Do you wanna go to dinner with me?”
I look at Hunter to find him watching me with a hopeful smile on his lips. “Dinner?”
He nods. “Tonight. We could dress up a little fancy and go into the city and eat together.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “The city?”
Hunter grins. “The next town over. Believe it or not, they have a really nice steakhouse over there. They even have a wine menu.”
My stomach drops out. Alcohol—wine in particular—is such a trigger for me. I don’t think Hunter would ever hurt me, but I’ve also never seen him drink.
“Whoa, hey,” Hunter says, setting down the brush he’s holding as he steps toward me. Warm fingers touch my face, and it takes me too long to realize I’m nearly hyperventilating. “Breathe, sweetheart. We don’t have to go out.”
I shake my head, trying to regulate my emotions. “It’s not that.”
His thumbs ghost over my cheekbones, and I inhale deeply. The scent of hay and dirt is clinging to his hands, and, by all accounts, it should be gross, but more than anything, it’s grounding. So I close my eyes and breathe in deeper. Finally, after focusing hard on the smells around me and the soft brushing of Hunter’s fingers on my face, my breathing returns to normal.
I open my eyes to find Hunter watching me with concern. “You okay?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Like I said,” Hunter says carefully. “We don’t have to go out.”
“I want to,” I rush to say. “But… I don’t want to drink.” I stop just short of telling him I don’t want him to, either.
I think he picks up on it all on his own, though, because his eyes soften with understanding and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “I won’t, either.”
Between one breath and the next, I’m wrapped in his arms. I sink my face into his throat and breathe him in. He smells so good that it’s nearly intoxicating.
“Damien drank a lot. Wine, specifically. My scar…”
Memories rush through me. Telling Damien I wanted a divorce. Him drinking wine the whole time. More and more wine. The bottle being slammed against the counter. Broken glass spraying all over the floor, mixing with the red of my blood and the wine.
The way the glass felt when he…
The pain. The searing, all-consuming pain. The numbness.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” Hunter says again, his hand making circles on my back. “There you go. Good. In and out.”
“It was a wine bottle,” I somehow manage to choke out. “My scar. I told him…” I pause, breathing in another deep noseful of Hunter’s scent. “I told him I wanted a divorce.”
Hunter doesn’t talk; he just tightens his grip on my waist with one arm and keeps gently rubbing my back with the other.
“It was fine. I thought it was fine.” I squeeze my eyes closed. “It wasn’t. He was calm when I told him. Too calm. I should have known. As soon as I was done talking, he…”
Running his fingertips up my spine, Hunter slips his fingers into my hair, holding me against him. I’m shaking, I think. Damn near trembling like a leaf in his arms. He doesn’t waver; he just holds me, strong and steady as the day is long.
I follow the even rise and fall of his chest with my own breathing. In and out. In and out.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Hunter says, his voice low and soothing in my ear.
“I know. I want to… Is that okay?”
“Anything you want is okay.”
I nod. “Alright.”
For a while, I’m quiet, and he just holds me. I find strength in his arms. Strength to go on, to tell this awful story.
