“The question isn’t what kind of nerdy underwear you wear; it’s if you’re wearing them right now.” Sexy, why is he so damn sexy?
I gurgle, not knowing how to answer. “Busted,” I say. The car’s too small, and we’re too close. My heart’s beating too fast, my hands start shaking, and I start shifting around in my seat.
“You feel it, don’t you.” Hunter says.
I know I didn’t say anything out loud this time, I swear.
“Uh... what?” I cross my ankles. Nope, not comfortable. I uncross, and put my left over my right foot. Better but still awkward. I push down the window, let the cool air soothe the heat of my body.
My insides squirm, each organ doing a little dance. Butterflies have nothing on this. I’m hyper-aware. I smell him, only him. I can’t smell the cedars we’re passing; I’m deaf to the bell of a cyclist using his hand signals, trying to make us pay attention.
Hunter smells like a mixture of insulin – that chemical smell you get from hospitals – and his cologne. I like it, it mixes with his body chemistry and I just want to sniff at him for hours.
I listen for his breathing – nice and even. I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“I’ll take you home, if that’s what you really want. I’m just asking you to give this a chance.”
“There’s no chance, Hunt. You left me to the Duchess. You don’t even respect me enough to even call me your friend in front of your mom. If I’m not good enough for that, than what good am I as a potential-” I don’t get to finish.
“Shit with my mom is complicated. If I kept you close, trust me, she woulda been a hundred times worse. Consider the words she gave you as a light tap to the nose when I’ve been dealt uppercuts my entire life.”
“Who’s Alysha?” I shouldn’t have asked. Hunt’s grip’s so tight around the steering wheel, I’m wondering if he’s imagining his hands around my throat instead. Shit.When we come to a red light, he swings his upper body so it’s facing me, giving me a full-assault. And what a glorious full-on assault it is. The temperature inside the car seems to rocket up a whole ten degrees.
“I will discuss everything with you once we get to the restaurant. I promise.”
“You make a lot of promises.” I’m scared and nervous. My head isn’t working right with him around. He’s dangerous to me.
“I always keep my promises.” I roll my eyes.
“Do you promise not to be an asshole for the whole time we’re there?” I say, motioning to the now green light.
“Yeah. I just want to take you out to dinner. Share a meal.” Sounds like a line. “One question, though. What kind of nerdy underwear are you wearing?”
Burning. My cheeks are burning, my entire body is burning. My nipples are tingling. Ack! No!
“Sera...”
I shake my head.
A deep chuckle from his end of the car. “I’ll find out one of these days.”
My mouth pops open and I turn to look at him, bun swishing out of place. “What?!”
A wicked grin on his mouth – I swear I feel it all over. “Give this a chance. Whatever this is. Starting with tonight.”
“And if I want you to back off?” He’ll be an asshole, or I’ll finally come to my senses and realize that he would never want me.
“I’ll do it.”
“What about Matty?”
Hunter shrugs, but it looks more like he’s working the tension out of his shoulders. “If he asks about you, I’ll tell him the truth. But you’d want to see him more than you’d want to see me?”
“Absolutely.” Not what Hunter MacLaine wants to hear.
Hunter’s a throwback to another time. He moves my chair back for me, letting my ass hit the cushion, and sliding it carefully under me in time with my movements as I approach the table. Definitely not what I was expecting.
Then again, I’m sure I wasn’t what he was expecting, either.
I’m happy I brought a sweater. Now that summer’s coming, restaurateurs are abusing their A/C buttons, making goose-bumps erupt on my arms; I shiver so hard my spine cracks.
When Hunter settles himself in front of me, his cell goes into his pocket, and not on the table. Point: Hunter. As he shrugs off his hoodie, I get a glimpse of tight muscles pulling against the fabric of his tee – not the kind that’s painted on, but tight enough across the chest and arms that I’m wondering why the seams don’t wave goodbye and give up on pretending to be a shirt.
His tats are on display, now – on his biceps and into the crook of his elbows and snaking on the insides of his forearms.I can’t look away. I trace the words we are all self-fulfilling prophecies written up his left forearm, caressing his elbow with my eyes. I love watching him move, sinuous, graceful, but with an economy that means no energy is wasted. Even the flick of his wrists lining up to the edge of the table and come to rest in front of his plate is a battle strategy.