We stare at each other across the car. My heart lodges itself somewhere in my throat.
A child’s screech—No, I don’t wanna leave yet!—from the minivan next to us shatters the moment. I blink and grab the car door handle, swiftly opening the door and taking my seat. My thoughts are a tangle of questions, wants, and fears.
Hunter climbs into the car and starts it but doesn’t put it into reverse yet. His fingers flex and release on the steering wheel.
After a beat of silence, I ask, “You really found a way to get a cardiologist to talk to you about me?”
He nods, not looking up, still gripping the wheel. The leather squeaks in protest.
“That’s kind of amazing,” I admit softly. It’s not like heart surgeons take phone calls all day—orever. Even I usually have to communicate with Dr. Thorup through his nurse. “No one has ever done something like that for me before. Well, except my mom,” I add with a strained chuckle.
Hunter glances over at me, unsmiling, and mine fades. “I know I told you I didn’t want any sort of relationship when we met, and I’msorry. I thought I meant it. But after the last few weeks with you, I’m not sure anymore.”
The blood rushes to my cheeks again but not in anger this time. The look in his eyes delves straight into the deepest part of me, where a tantalizing heat ignites.
“Could you ever learn to care for someone like me? A man who killed his sister ... a man who looks like this?” He gestures to his face.
“You didn’tkillher, Hunter. You made a mistake, and your sister died. There’s a difference. And I don’t care about your scars.”
His gaze is unrelenting, and my mouth goes dry.
“This is the part where I warn you again about all the risks ifyouwere to get involved withme,” I say shakily. “I’mthe walking time bomb.”
“In case you haven’t figured it out yet, Liv”—his voice is low, rough with emotion—“I don’t care. You can’t scare me off. I already know life can end any day, at any time. None of us have any guarantees. You might live five years or fifty. I could get hit by a car on my run tomorrow morning—or I could die when I’m ninety of Alzheimer’s.” Hunter pauses, the weight of his words hanging heavy between us in the small space that separates our bodies in his car. “That’s all I was trying to say before. You don’t need to live in fear of dying. Any one of us could be gone from one minute to the next. Your dad, my sister ... neither of them had any warning. One day they were here, and the next—they were gone.” His eyes are full of the pain I feel reflected in my own heart. “You know how precious life is, so instead of living in fear of it ending, live like every day is the gift you’ve been given. Because it is. You, alive, sitting in my car, looking at me like that, is agift.”
I’m unable to speak, strangled by the ache swelling in my chest.
“I hope I can convince you to forgive me for the terrible first impression I made on you. I’m scared, too, Liv. But I’m doing what youasked. I’mtrying. And I want to givethisa shot—if you’ll give me a chance to show you who I really am. Because we’re messy mates, right? Messy mates give each other second and third and fourth chances, if necessary.”
“Right,” I rasp, tremulously. Because he’s right, Iama mess. And Iamterrified. I’ve had another man say I couldn’t scare him off before, but eventually, he, too, broke up with me. Why would Hunter be any different?
He lets go of the steering wheel with one hand to reach across the console to gently wipe a solitary tear from my cheek. Our eyes meet, and his hand stills on my skin. My heart beats so hard it’s painful. His thumb brushes against my lip, and my mouth parts beneath his touch. A shiver races down my spine. Every nerve in my body sparks with the need for him to keep touching me—for him to close the distance between us.
Instead, he drops his hand, a muscle tightening beneath his scarred flesh. This time,Ireach up and cuphisface—feeling the combination of mottled and smooth skin beneath my fingers. His eyebrows pull together, and his jaw clenches beneath my hand. There is unmasked pain in his eyes. He tries to pull back, to turn away from me, but I lift my other hand to the unmarred side of his face, holding him there, forcing him to look at me.
“They don’t bother me. They’re a part of who you are—and you are an amazing man, Hunter. If you’re going to make me face my fears, then I’m going to make you face yours too.”
He swallows, his expression tortured.
I lean across the console between us and press my lips to his jaw, on his ravaged skin. Hunter shudders; a sound escapes from deep in his throat, rough, involuntarily.
“Our scars tell the stories of our survival,” I whisper.
His arms come around me, pressing me to him as much as possible in the cramped space of the car. My hip digs into the consoleand the steering wheel pushes into the side of my rib cage, but I don’t care. He shakes in my arms as I hold him as close as I can.
When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “She never touched my scars. Not once in a year.”
I don’t say anything. I merely wrap my arms even tighter around him.
The sound of my ringtone startles both of us, and we spring apart. Hunter shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes while I fumble to pull my phone out.
The picture of me and Talia lights up my screen. I stare at it for several seconds.
“You should talk to her,” he says quietly. He’s regained control of himself. Only the red rimming his irises hints at the storm of emotion from moments prior.
“I will. But not right now.”
I reject the call, set my phone back down, and glance at the clock on Hunter’s dash. I’m shocked to realize I’ve been gone for almost an hour.
