That was a lifetime ago.
I close my eyes and see Jenna’s funeral instead. The casket, the flowers, the way my mom held me up when my knees gave out. Ten years gone and I can still smell the lilies, the smell coating my throat, sickly sweet and choking. The church pew was hard under my knees when they gave out. Someone's hand—my mom's, maybe—pressed against my back.
Then there was the hollow ache of coming home to an empty house that was supposed to be full of kids and laughter and a future we’d planned out over Sunday morning coffee. I remember thinking how strange it was that I could see and talk to everyone there but not Jenna.
After that, I kept things simple. Clean. No feelings, no strings, no risk of that kind of loss again.
But Claire.
She looked at me like she saw straight through the flirty bullshit to something real underneath. Like she wanted to touch that scar and hear the story behind it. Like maybe she had her own scars she kept hidden under white coats and perfect professionalism.
“You’re thinking about her,” Piper says.
“Shut up.”
“You are. You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“Like you actually care.” She leans forward, elbows on her knees. “Hunter. Are you ready for this? Because if you’re just going to do your usual thing and bail after a few weeks, leave this one alone. Esme says Claire’s been through enough.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Means her ex did a number on her. Means she deserves someone who’s going to stick around.” Piper’s eyes bore into mine. “So I’m asking. Are you finally ready to date someone who isn’t gone by sunrise?”
The question sits heavy in the recovery room air.
Am I?
Six months ago, the answer would’ve been hell no. But six months ago, I hadn’t met Claire Elliott. Hadn’t seen the way she fought to stay professional while her eyes went dark with want. Hadn’t felt the buzz of recognition when she looked at me, likewe were both circling the same dangerous thing and trying to pretend we weren’t.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “I want to pursue her.”
Piper’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Huh.” She sits back, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve. “Well, this should be interesting.”
Three days later, I’m home on my couch, arm in a sling, bored out of my skull.
Rain hammers the metal roof, that steady drumbeat I've listened to since living in this house. The fire in the stone hearth has burned down to embers, casting orange shadows across the knotty pine walls. My coffee's gone cold on the side table, next to a stack of unread crime thrillers Franklin dropped off.
But all I can do is think about Claire’s mouth.
Again.
Still.
I’ve thought about that mouth so many times in the last seventy-two hours that I could draw it from memory. The shape of her lips, the way they parted when I asked what happens when she’s not in control, the tight line they pressed into when she was trying not to react to me.
I want to mess up that control. Want to see her let go.
My phone sits on the coffee table, taunting me.
I could text her. Should text her, probably, since we’re supposed to be coordinating wedding stuff. Best man and maid of honor have duties. Responsibilities. Perfectly legitimate reasons to communicate.
Except I don’t have her number.
