But irritation emanates off Hunter like waves of heat rising from pavement, his broad, muscular shoulders tense, his free hand flexing at his side.
“He was standing in the kitchen in the dark! Not a single light on in the whole house! What kind of creeper lurks around in the dark, waiting for his cousin to get home?”
“The kind of creeper who has a migraine from taking a red-eye and working all day, and was trying to get ibuprofen and aspirin and go to bed early. On an air mattress, I might add, since I currently don’t even have a bed.” Hunter’s voice is bone-dry.
I don’t think my cheeks can get any hotter without making me spontaneously combust on the spot.
“I should have texted to warn you, Liv. Sorry.” Lou grimaces. “He told me he had a headache at work. I gave himkeys to both sides of the duplex. But I didn’t know you were going to skulk around in the dark and terrify my roommate, Hunter.”
He’s still standing in the doorway, coated in my salad, holding my keys and phone. The lettuce clings to his neck, probably attached to the light dusting of scruff that makes him look like some sort of model, even with diced tomatoes and avocado stuck on his tie and slim-fit slacks that show off his muscled legs to far too great an advantage. His brown hair is longer than it was in the picture Lou showed me a year or two ago, long enough to tuck the loose waves behind his ears—but now it’s completely obvious it’s Hunter. His profile is the same, though somehow evenmorestriking in person. Of course he has to be scorchingly hot.Of course.
“I wouldn’t have, if I’d known she was going to attack me with”—he pauses, drags a finger over a blob of dressing on his tie, then licks it, considering—“green goddess salad.”
I wince. “I’m really sorry.”
“These belong to you, I believe.” He holds my phone and keys out with his right hand.
Sheepish, I reclimb the stairs to claim my belongings.
“What a meet-cute to tell your grandkids about someday!” Lou is fully laughing now, no longer able to contain her mirth.
Hunter’s body goes rigid. “I have no interest in a relationship right now, Louise. And you know that.”
I freeze on the steps, my embarrassment transmuting into full-on humiliation. Did he seriously say that as if I’m not standingright here—albeit disheveled, with my hair in a sloppy topknot, shoeless, still wearing a flour-covered apron, and probably half my makeup melted off from baking all day in the hot kitchen? Butstill.Rude.
“No offense,” he adds belatedly, probably noticing my horrified expression out of the corner of his eye (since he won’t look at me) and realizing how offended I am. I’ve never been able to hide my emotions. My mom says my face is an open book. I wish I were more like an encyclopedia, unread and unknown. Especially right now.
“Hunter, don’t be a jerk. You can’t decide that without even giving Liv a chance.”
“I don’t need to get to know her. She’s probably great, questionable salad choices aside, but I don’t want to get involved withanyone.”
“I am standingrighthere.” I finally find my voice, now mortifiedandaffronted.
“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to upset you,” Hunter says in that deep, smoky voice, sounding like he couldn’t care less if he upsets me, “but if Lou gave you the wrong idea, I think it’s better to be honest from the start.”
I clench my hands into fists. “Yeah, me too,” I agree. “Which is why if you’d ever look my direction, you might see that I’m not exactly drooling over here, begging you to dive into a relationship with me.”
Hunter’s brows lift, and he finally turns to me fully. In the glow of the porch light, I see his entire face for the first time—and the striated, scarred skin that covers his left cheek, jaw, and misshapen ear halfway hidden beneath his hair. And—curse the subtitles on my face—he sees my initial shock.
His open gaze shutters into a cold scowl. “Apparently you forgot to warn her.” He shoves my phone and keys toward me.
I fumble to grab them, protesting, “It’s no big deal, I promise—”
But he’s already pivoted, storming back into the condo.
Lou’s laughter is gone. “Crap,” she mumbles. “I should have told you, but I knew you wouldn’t care, and I’m so used to it—”
I groan and hurry after him into the condo. “Hunter?” I flip on the lights—no more surprises in the dark, despite his migraine—and hurry toward the kitchen, where his heavy steps accompany a muttered curse.
When I round the corner this time, I’m expecting his large presence butnotwitnessing him yanking his ruined tie off and unbuttoning his shirt, revealing his washboard abs and sculpted chest as he continues through the already cleaned-up kitchen to the laundry room beyond. My mouth goes dry.
But Hunter is not in any mood to be ogled by a woeful roommate who hasn’t been on a date in months. Undeterred, I follow him, determined to apologize and make this right. I would never,everwant anyone with scars of any kind to feel bad. A wave of deep, nauseating guilt rolls through my stomach, knowing my unguarded reaction to the left side of his face has clearly wounded him. Now that he removed his shirt, I can see the striated skin—clearly the work of skin grafts—extends down his neck and spreads over his left shoulder and part of his back.
His lips tighten into a thin line as he smashes his clothes into a ball and chucks them into the washing machine.
“Are those okay to go in the wash? They look like they need to be dry—”
“Let’s not do this.” A ripple runs through his shoulders, his back muscles flexing and hardening like a storm brewing beneath his skin. “I don’t need your pity.”
