Page 27 of P.S. It’s Always Been You
My heart has the audacity to flutter.
It’s just yogurt. And you already ate. Cool your jets.
Hunter moves in next to me and hits the button to raise the partition. “Thanks for everything, Lenny.”
“Anytime, Hunter,” the driver says, then he disappears behind the tinted glass.
“Is he your regular driver?” I ask, and it comes out snippier than I intended. Because the man has a freaking driver, and I still have loans from graduate school.
“Just met him this morning. Great guy. We had a good conversation on the way over. The network set it up.”
Somehow, this irks me more. Because it reminds me of the lines between us. The past and the present. His wealth and my complete lack of it. But even so, I won’t be a bitch.
“Thank you for the ride, and for the breakfast, but I already ate. Why don’t we get to work?”
“I’ll put the yogurt in the fridge.”
His car has a fridge? Does it have wings too?
He tucks the yogurt away in a small icebox under the console, and I grab some papers from my bag so we can go over the plan for today and the best approach to inventorying the home.
“I’d love to go in order, room to room. I think that would work for the crew too. What do you think?” I ask.
“Yeah, that’s great. But listen, there’s something I want to say first.” His tone is strong, but with a touch of emotion that surprises me.
My shoulders tighten. “There’s something I want to say” nearly always precedes bad news. I reach for the thermos to pour a cup of tea, since I might need something else to focus on. But as I reach for it, the car swings around the corner, and I nearly slam into the door.
“Whoa. Let’s get you buckled in, honey,” he says.
And I freeze.
Honey. He just called me “honey” again. That’s what he used to call me. But I steal a glance at his face, and he must not have noticed or cared.
Besides, he’s busy reaching for the seat belt. As he stretches across me, I catch the faint scent of him. It’s woodsy and freshly showered, and there is nothing I love more on a man than a clean, soapy scent. Hunter has it in spades. I want to lick his neck and touch his face and trace his stubble . . . and what the hell is wrong with me?
Or maybe I should be asking what’s wrong with him? Because he’s still tugging on the seat belt. “It’s just a little stuck,” he mutters, while his arm reaches across my chest.
I close my eyes and catch my breath.
“You okay?”
When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me, his brown gaze impossibly darker.
“I’m good.” My voice is a feather.
“There.” With a rough yank, he pulls the seat belt across me, his fingers grazing my breasts as he goes.
I squeak. My body goes up in flames.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m great.”
When he’s done buckling me in, he smiles, arching a brow playfully. He lowers his hand and tugs on the waistband of the seatbelt, like he’s testing it.
His hands are on my hip now and that feels too good. My resolve, where did that go? Is it curbside at my apartment? Did I leave it at the door? Because it’s missing when I open my mouth. “I don’t have a boyfriend. Do you have a girlfriend?” I blurt.
His smile is legendary. It’s cocky, and it kills me, and I’ve said the worst possible thing ever. But I couldn’t stop thinking about his situation after the other night. “Forget I said that,” I say quickly, as heat splashes across my cheeks.
His grin spreads wider. “No need to forget. I’m happy to tell you.”
I wave it off. “I don’t need to know. It’s fine. It’s all fine.”
He hums, moving in closer. “There’s no one. Not a single woman is distracting me.” His breath whispers over my ear, turning me on. “Except you.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing I could both redo this morning and stay like this, with him this close, with his breath, with his lips, with his nearness, for the whole morning.
But I can’t. I’m a woman on a mission, and that mission is work. I hit rewind, returning to something he said a few minutes ago. “There’s something you wanted to say to me?”
His expression shifts instantly. Gone is the playful man, the flirt. He’s wearing his serious face, the one I bet he uses when he leads dangerous expeditions.
“What is it, Hunter?” I ask, concerned.
He takes a deep breath. “I know it’s probably too late for this, but I want to say it. I’m sorry for how it ended. I’m sorry for how I didn’t say a word about where I was going. It was cold and cruel, but I thought it was the only way I could leave without feeling completely ripped in half. I did what was best for me, not you, and I’m sorry for that.”
