I guess I’m still not paying attention, because suddenly there’s a tap on my ankle, and I realize I just walked right past him. He’s sitting on the plush rug with his back against the wall his room shares with the bathroom.
“Hi.” Despite the weirdness of our circumstances, I can’t help smiling.
“Hi.” He returns the smile, but his is weary.
I jerk my thumb toward the still-steaming bathroom. “You should shower.” He’s sweaty and his hands are still a mess. “I bet you’d feel better.”
When he makes no move to get up, I lean down, grab his forearm, and tug lightly. “Come into the bathroom with me. I want to wash your hands.”
“I can do it,” he says softly, getting up.
I reach my fingertip toward his arm. “You should put some gauze on them.”
I catch a flicker of something on his face that I think might be embarrassment, but it’s gone just as fast, and for a long moment as he gets a first aid kit from a bathroom cabinet, he’s Hunter West, enigma/fantasy.
When he’s back in range, I put my hands on his smooth shoulders and urge him onto the side of the tub. “Sit.” I grab a chair from behind me, sit, and pop open the kit.
Cleaning his fists is surprisingly intimate. It makes my belly clench, not because he’s gorgeous—though he is, especially with his torso bare—but because I feel so much for him.
I run a damp towel over his right hand, and I’m hit with the memory of what I heard his father say—about Rita. And what I heard Hunter say, too: “I’m not the one who hit a fucking kid!”
My throat aches. I have so many questions, especially about this, but I know now’s not the time. I want to keep it light right now. I briefly meet his gaze. “When’s your next tournament?”
“Supposed to be in two weeks.”
“Do you split your time pretty evenly between here and your vineyard?” I ask as I dab some antibacterial cream on his cuts.
He shakes his head. “I prefer the vineyard. When I can be there.”
Which I hope is a lot. I’m practically gleeful when I think of him being so close.
I wrap his hand in gauze and then glance up and find him looking at me through his long, dark lashes. His face is so handsome, it’s hard to think about anything else. I take a deep breath as I tie off the gauze. “I was wondering...how do you think Sarabelle ended up with your cufflink?”
He locks his jaw. “Do you really want to hear this?”
Now dabbing cream atop his other hand, I nod. “Not only do I think you would never do something like this, but you didn’t sound guilty on the phone, and no one at Love Inc. thinks you are. Those three things are good enough for me.”
He rubs a hand back through his hair as I start wrapping his hand in gauze. “I don’t want to drag you into this.”
“Is it because you don’t trust me?” I ask, tying off the gauze.
“No. It’s because I’m worried for you.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he gets up, grabbing an undershirt off a shelf and pulling it over his head. His face is a blank slate as he reaches for my hand. I give it to him, and he leads me into the bedroom I’ve been using.
He blinks, looking like he’s coming out of a daze. “Let me help you pack. There’s too much going on right now. I don’t know who might show up here.”
He surprises me by pressing a tender kiss on my temple. “Libby, I can’t stand to worry about you.”
“I’ll go tomorrow if you still think I should. But for tonight let’s just talk, or...I don’t know. Watch movies or something.”
He gives me a skeptical look. “Watch movies?”
“I bet you have a hell of a home studio somewhere in here.”
“And if the FBI shows up and takes me off in handcuffs?”
“I’ll post your bail.” I smirk a little. “I have the money.”
I start to fold and organize my clothes, which are laid out by outfit all over the room, and Hunter leans against the bed. It’s a little awkward, but also kind of companionable. “I’m surprised you went to a brothel for sex,” I say after a few minutes.
“Are you?” He smiles a little ruefully.
“You could get it on your own.”
“True. But I’m emotionally detached. Women don’t like that.”
“Do you really think so?” I don’t see him that way.
He shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s not alluring to some. But eventually most people want more.”
“That’s not what I meant. Why do you say you’re detached?”
He shrugs. “Nurture shaping nature.” One eyebrow lifts when he sees my face. “You look surprised.”
“I am,” I say, tucking the last of my outfits into the suitcase. “You just don’t strike me that way.”