I’m still staring at him like he just pulled a rabbit out of a hat. “I didn’t know you spoke Japanese.”
Hunter glances at me, surprised. “Oh, yeah, I guess it just never came up.” He shrugs casually, eyes back on the road. “Myobaachandoesn’t speak English very well, so I learned it in middle school.”
“That’s…” My voice cracks, and for one horrifying second, I consider throwing myself out of the moving car just to escape the embarrassment. I clear my throat. “That’s ridiculously hot. I didn’t think your whole smart-guy thing could get any hotter, but you never cease to amaze me.”
The corner of his mouth curls into a smug smirk. He rattles off another phrase in Japanese, smooth as silk.
I narrow my eyes. “What did you just say?”
His smirk widens. “Kiss me.”
My heart slams against my ribs. The car is barreling down the highway at seventy-five miles an hour, but somehow the most dangerous thing here is him—his voice, his grin, the way he says it like a challenge.
So I lean across the seat, closing the distance between us, and do exactly as he asked.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hunter’s childhood home is a brick colonial mansion, nestled in the suburbs of Detroit. The front lawn is so green it almost glows, the stripes from the mower still visible. Two rocking chairs sit on the porch between tall white pillars, framed by sculpted hedges and rose bushes in full bloom.
Hunter pulls into the wide driveway beside a fleet of luxury SUVs and sports cars. He shuts off his car but doesn’t move, his grip lingering on the steering wheel. His gaze drifts toward me, uneasy.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this? There’s still time to turn around,” he says, his voice tense with nerves.
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure. You’re not using me as an excuse to bail. I’d rather your family not hate me, thanks.”
He searches my face, exhales in defeat, and finally climbs out of the car. I follow him up the pristine front steps, past the wooden double doors already buzzing with noise from inside.
The second we step through the entryway, the relief of air conditioning washes over me. The house is already packed with party guests, every surface polished and dusted to perfection. People are scattered everywhere, drinks in hand, music pulsing from speakers. A crystal chandelier hangs over our heads, casting sparkling glimmers on the hardwood floors. It’s… a lot.
Before I can orient myself, someone barrels toward us. Same height as Hunter, same olive toned skin, same crooked grin—except this version has a buzzcut, a thicker build, andno glasses.
Knowing Hunter had an identical twin was one thing. Standing face-to-face with him is something else entirely.
“Hunter!” Landon booms, pulling his brother into an awkward half-hug. His eyes shift to me as his smile widens. “And you must be the lifeguard. Mason, right?”
Landon’s voice is deeper than Hunter’s, rougher, but the resemblance is uncanny enough to make my stomach twist. Seeing him in the flesh is like stepping into a parallel universe where Hunter plays football and drinks protein shakes.
Landon smirks at my reaction. “Weird, huh? Seeing someone with the same face as the guy you’re fucking?”
Heat rushes straight to my ears. Hunter swats his brother’s arm with a scowl. “Jesus, Landon. Can you not?”
“Relax,” Landon laughs, hands raised. “I’m just teasing! I know you’re justfriends.” He knocks his fist into Hunter’s shoulder hard enough to make him stumble. “Happy birthday, bro.”
Hunter exhales through his nose, smiling tightly. “Yeah. You too.”
Landon slings Hunter’s duffle off his shoulder and grabs mine too. “You guys go socialize. I’ll drop these upstairs. It’s good to have you home, Hunt.”
Before either of us can protest, Landon disappears into the throng of guests with both our bags. I’m left standing there, still processing the bizarre twin déjà vu, while Hunter scrubs a hand down his face.
“Sorry,” he mutters with a grimace. “He thinks he’s hilarious.”
I shake my head, giving an awkward half-laugh. “Not gonna lie, seeing him was trippy as hell.”
He blows out a breath and straightens his shoulders like he’s preparing for battle. “Come on. Might as well get the parade of introductions over with.”
We weave our way through the living room, past clusters of people chatting in crisp polos and sundresses. Hunter’s smile turns practiced, his laugh a little more contained, his posture straighter.It’s not fake exactly, but it’s… stiff. Like he’s trying on an old jacket that doesn’t quite fit anymore.
He greets a tall dark-haired man near the fireplace with a firm handshake. “Mr. Ellison—how’s the new boat treating you?”
