I’m screwing the lid back on my bottle after filling it with water when I get another text, this time from Lou.
Keep it down. I’m trying to sleep in.
If you’re up, then come with me, and fill me in on the Dreamboat Banker!
Chris is amazing. And NO.
“Headed to the gym?”
The deep, sleep-husky voice makes me jump, and I whirl with a screech, instinctually swinging my water bottle in self-defense.
Hunter is more prepared this time and leaps backward before the heavy cylinder impacts any part of his body.
I gasp and clutch my chest.
“Is this a habit of yours—throwing things at people?” He quirks one brow.
“I didn’t throw it this time, and I only react this way because you keepscaringme,” I retort testily. “What are you doing here right now?”
His gaze drops to where I clutch my tank top, willing my heart to calm. I glance down and realize the top of my scar is visible. I straighten the shirt, hiding the puckered skin once more, and glare up at him. Our eyes meet and hold for a brief moment, the infinitesimal pause between one breath and the next. In the morning sunlight streaming through the window, I realize his eyes are actually hazel; flecks of green and amber rim his pupils. Then he looks away, toward the window over the sink, the edge of his jaw flushing a dusky red beneath his tan. “Apparently there’s no water in my half of this place,” he says. “I needed to go to the bathroom and fill my bottle.”
“Well, next time, warn me you’re coming over—especially if the sun hasn’t even come up yet.” I turn and grab my stuff off the counter.
“Noted.” There’s a clink as he sets his keys down on the kitchen counter. “Where areyouheaded so early?” he asks again.
“To the mall.” I face him once more, glancing down at my workout clothes with raised eyebrows. “What does it look like?”
“Are you going to power walk for half an hour?” Hunter smirks, drawing heat to my cheeks. He looks far too good in his shorts, T-shirt, and Nikes.
“I’m going to thegym.”
“Oh ... You can work out after having a heart transplant?”
I can’t tell if he’s genuinely asking or mocking me. “Of course I can,” I say, annoyed. “In fact, I have a very strict regimen of cardio and weights to keep my heart as healthy as possible. And I’m going to be late. So have a good—whatever you’re going to do.”
The corners of his lips turn down. “I’m going for a run. No one stares at me like they do at the gym—or if they do, I don’t notice if I’m sprinting fast enough.”
His admission is a kick to the stomach. His scars are much worse than the puckered skin that bisects my sternum and are impossible to hide, unlike mine. It’s not hard to imagine the stares and comments he must get.
I suck a breath through my teeth, wrestling my instinct to lash out into submission. It’s disconcerting how angry he makes me. “You must be pretty fast, then.”
He shrugs, those impressive shoulders rising and falling. He didn’t make muscles like those only from running. He must have foundsomewhereto lift if he avoids the gym. I wonder what he’ll do here in Arizona.
“Well, have a good workout.” He pulls out some over-the-ear headphones from the case he’s holding and puts them on, shoving his phone into his shorts pocket.
“You too,” I say as I trail him out the door. I try not to watch him stretch in the front yard as I climb into my car, but it’s hard not to. His thighs are powerful, his calves toned. His biceps move and flex beneath the short sleeves of his tech shirt as he stretches his quads. He takes off in the opposite direction with a nod of his chin as I pull away from the curb and shoot off a text to Talia telling her to start warming up since I’m going to be a few minutes late.
I’d like to say I didn’t watch his long, loping gait in my rearview mirror and nearly run a stop sign in the process, but then I would be lying.
The fact that he admitted he likes to run to avoid stares at the gym feels like an olive branch of sorts. A pang of sympathy for him rises, but it doesn’t erase what a jerk he was last night. I blast my workout playlist with my windows rolled down as I drive to the gym, letting the balmy morning breeze blow away all thoughts of my new neighbor.
Later that afternoon, I’m back in my uniform of jeans, T-shirt, and apron, hair pulled up, standing outside, spraying the glass doors of the bakery with Windex and wiping off fingerprints during a lull in customers.
“What is a Konditori?”
I whirl, brandishing the Windex, and Hunter lifts his hands in submission. “Don’t shoot!”
“Quit scaring me! My heart can’t take it.”
