The Hunter: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Boston Belles Book 1)

Hunter used a GPS app to get to his parents’ gigantic mansion.

He didn’t know the way by heart, something he admitted to me with a sullen frown that ripped through my chest like a bear’s claws. We had to be buzzed into the premises after waiting at the iron-wrought gate for fifteen minutes for a servant to open for us.

“Sorry I don’t have a key,” he mumbled sourly. I nodded.

“God. This place looks like the Castle of Otranto. You sure your grandfather’s ghost isn’t roaming around?”

“If it is, I bet it’s taken up residence in the help quarter’s bathrooms. He was a notorious rake.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“I’d be hiding in the showers—not my parents’. But damn, it’d be a good time.”

The trip up the drive went silently, me clad in a sensible, off-white dress—mainly to appease his parents—and Hunter with a sour frown. The gates rolled closed slowly behind us, almost tauntingly so.

My parents were going to crap themselves when they saw me wearing something so feminine, but I knew Hunter was on edge about this visit and wanted things to go as smoothly as possible.

Guilt also gnawed at my gut for shutting him down for the rest of the week leading to today. Part of it was about protecting myself from getting attached to him, and the other part was trying to extinguish public relations fires.

The day after Hunter and I shared sushi and that temple kiss, Lana Alder had challenged me to discuss the feud between us during her appearance on Rise and Shine, America. I watched the video on YouTube on repeat while sitting on the toilet, long after I finished my morning pee. She’d grinned slyly as she turned to the camera.

“I wish I could be as supportive to Sailor Brennan as I am toward my other Olympic sisters. Unfortunately, she did something unforgivable to me. I think it’s high time she addressed it publicly, seeing as she’s been relentlessly promoting herself in the media. People need to know the real Sailor Brennan, not the person she tries to appear to be.”

Lana went on to suggest that someone with heavy pockets must be backing me, but she made it sound like whoever it was also rolled me between their sheets. I got a phone call from Crystal not an hour after the interview aired, her phlegmy smoker’s cough assaulting my ear.

“You have to tell me what happened between you and Lana so I’ll know how to approach this.”

“I can’t,” I croaked. I didn’t want to repeat it in anyone’s ears.

“That bad?”

I nodded, forgetting she couldn’t see me. I squeezed my eyes shut. “It was an accident.”

Hunter had tried to talk to me about it a few times, but confiding in him would have led to more questions, which equaled more intimacy, which resulted in total disaster.

We finally reached his parents’ house, and our car slid around the circle drive. Hunter parked next to a handcrafted fountain: the silhouette of a maiden holding a bowl above her head, the water pouring from it around her like a waterfall. The fountain—as the rest of the estate—was lit in warm, champagne lights. I noticed my father’s Maserati already parked there, as well as Sam’s matte-finish Porsche 911 and a brand new black Aston Martin Valkyrie that admittedly looked like a squashed ladybug.

Hunter rounded my car to open the door for me, oblivious to the stinking wealth he wasn’t a part of.

Jane greeted us at the door, flinging herself into Hunter’s arms. She received a pat on the back. My parents and Sam were evidently somewhere in the castle, getting their tour from Aisling, Cillian, and Gerald. Everyone was dressed formally, and everyone eyed me like I was a ticking bomb about to detonate all over the vintage furniture.

Which, just like the exterior of Avebury Court Manor, was noteworthy.

Everything here was big and extravagant. The first floor stretched across what could easily be three football fields. The limestone beneath my feet was a dramatic shade of crème, with accents of gold, copper, and bronze. The central chandelier dripping from the high ceiling was made of dozens of vintage champagne bottles with little lights inside them, and the vases across the hallways were the size of a fully-grown person, crammed with fresh, oversized flowers.

“Come, I’ll give you a tour. There’s a bowling alley, gym, two swimming pools, and a candy bar.” Jane tugged at my hand, barely containing her joy at having us around.

A candy bar?

Hunter must’ve seen the look on my face as his mother dragged me toward the other side of the floor, because his palm found my free hand and rubbed the inside of it. “You heard right.”

“I thought my ears were failing me.”

“Nope. Just your panties. Get rid of them.”

We exchanged a private grin as Jane began to babble about the architecture of the castle.

The tour took forty minutes, and we still couldn’t cover all the rooms on the first floor. By the time we were done, I wasn’t so heartbroken that Hunter hadn’t grown up here. This place wouldn’t feel like a home in a million years. For the entire tour, Jane tried to strike up a conversation with her son. She was met with polite, dry responses. Hunter regarded her with distant civility. It reminded me of a potential buyer who was listening to a pitch from a realtor, rather than a conversation between a mother and her son.

Finally, we returned to the dining room. My parents and Sam were there, back from their own tour from hell. I hugged them.

Sam said, “Whoa, a dress.”

I punched his arm. “Take a hike.”

“No, thanks. I’ll get lost in this nightmare of a house.”

Aisling, who stood next to Sam, let out a nervous laugh, blushing as she looked at him. He ignored her.

“Again, I’m right fucking here.” Hunter narrowed his eyes at me.

Sam’s gaze flicked to my roommate. “Is he treating you well, little sis?” he asked, not breaking his hold on Hunter’s gaze.

I rolled my eyes. “That’s for me to take care of. Welcome to the twenty-first century, big bro.”

“That wasn’t a yes,” Sam pointed out.

“He is treating me fine,” I said.

When we sat down, Mom squeezed my hand from across the table and winked.

“You look good, my love.”

“I feel good.” I smiled, reassuring her. I felt like crap, actually, except for my shoulder, which was better now. I was hysterical about the Lana business, and the proximity to Hunter didn’t help matters, either. I had the terrible sense of losing control, or maybe realizing I’d never had it in the first place.

“Not too good, I hope.” Dad flashed Hunter a look full of menace, which Hunter met, unblinking.

“Way too good, unfortunately for me,” Hunter muttered.

“Aaaand it’s showtime.” Cillian plucked a glass of wine from a silver tray offered to him by a servant, sitting back indulgently.

“Front-row seat,” Sam remarked next to Cillian, and the two clinked their glasses with condescending smirks.

“Ceann beag, do you think you can manage one dinner without offending everyone at the table, including some of the dishes and decorations?” Gerald inquired coldly, taking a seat at the head of the table.

He hadn’t bothered greeting me when we walked in, and he’d barely glanced at Hunter. In fact, the only time he did look at us was when Hunter was oblivious to him. Then he’d sneaked a peek. It was like he was having a one-sided power struggle with his own son. It made me want to hurl a fork in his direction.

Hunter took a glass of wine from the tray, offering it to me, before plucking one for himself. He was walking on thin ice—stomping on it, more like—and I couldn’t blame him. The air was thick with aggression, and he needed to save face. “Do I think I can? Certainly. Do I want to? No, that would be boring. Care if I treat myself to a glass of wine?”

“I do, actually. You are nineteen.” Gerald sniffed his wine, swirling it in its glass.

“Yes, an age when it is legal to drink in every western country save the United States.”

“Which is, unfortunately, where you are currently situated.” Cillian grinned at his younger brother.

“Could’ve fooled me. This place feels a lot like hell,” Hunter mumbled.

I jumped into the conversation headfirst, wanting to avert the looming family crisis.

“Mr. Fitzpatrick, I can assure you Hunter hasn’t had a lick of alcohol since we moved in together. He is the designated driver. I’m sure one glass of wine isn’t going to hinder his progress.”

“Are you that lax on him with other rules, too?” Gerald frowned at me from across the table.

I smiled, batting my eyelashes. Forget the fork, I’m throwing the steak knife at him, and I’m aiming for his heart.

“I’ve never been accused of being lax before, sir.”

“I’m sure you were not accused of anything, sweetheart,” Dad said through clenched teeth, staring Gerald down.

Gerald raised his hands in the air, backing off. “Clearly. I was merely teasing.”

“Tease someone your age.” Sam flashed a smile that didn’t match the danger lying behind it.

We had some kind of raw fish as a starter, followed by bread, cheese, and various tapas dishes. Then came the main course: steak and whipped mashed potatoes with butter and chives, with shavings of a type of mushroom that cost hundreds by the ounce. Mom seemed to hit it off with Jane conversation-wise, I talked to Aisling, and Dad, Gerald, and Sam discussed business, which left Cillian and Hunter to try to form some kind of a tête-à-tête. I half-listened to them while discussing colleges with Aisling.

“How is Syllie’s wife doing?” Hunter asked.

I’d noticed that when provoked about his antics, Hunter never missed an opportunity to flip his family the finger, but when he was actually talking to them, he walked on eggshells.

Cillian shrugged, cradling his wine glass and staring through his brother like he didn’t exist. “Unfortunately, I don’t keep tabs on women’s health unless they frequent my bed.”

“And you speak of my manners,” Hunter said tightly, throwing a large piece of steak into his mouth and chewing.

“I have the refinery to care for. Syllie is a very resourceful person. I’m sure he can help his wife with whatever she’s dealing with.”

“Resourceful enough to hurt us?” Hunter asked, arching an eyebrow.

Aisling was telling me about the merits of going to an out-of-state college, but I was drawn to the conversation between the brothers.

“Probably.” Cillian yawned, picking up a blueberry and examining it coldly.

I saw what he saw, what he liked about the tiny fruit—that little crown each perfect blueberry had that made it regal.

“Yet you wouldn’t back me up in front of Athair.”

“Correct.”

“Why, pray tell, is that?”

Cillian considered him through narrowed eyes. They’d fit on a snake better than they did on a human being. Cillian was gorgeous, his colors warm against the iciness of the rest of him. The older Fitzpatrick brother always looked a step away from gracefully dipping a sword into your chest and watching you draw your last breath with a pretty smile.

“Because you didn’t have sufficient evidence and you reeked of hysteria. Both made your case weak.”

Hunter said nothing, watching his sibling under a deep-set frown.

“Did you know that the word hysteria derives from the Latin word for uterus?” Cillian asked conversationally, dissecting his steak meticulously into pieces the exact same size, a la American Psycho. “In ancient Greece, it was believed that a wandering and discontented uterus was to blame for that dreaded female ailment of excessive emotion.” He put his fork down and stared at what he’d carved on his plate.

I watched him behind the diamond-studded rim of my wine glass.

Cillian’s hawk-like eyes and panther gestures gave me violent, uncomfortable shivers. He made me feel uneasy, unequipped—like the dirt beneath his shiny loafers, and he hadn’t even tried all that hard to provoke these emotions in me. I didn’t envy the people he actively hated.

“Do you speak Latin, Cillian?” I asked, taking a bite of my steak.

Aisling stopped talking, shooting me a do-you-want-to-die? horrified expression. The rest of the table fell silent, the tension hovering above our heads like a thick, dark cloud.

“A fair amount. Any particular reason you’d care?” He popped a piece of steak into his mouth.

He’d requested his steak so raw, so bloody, the juicy meat made the corners of his perfect lips glisten.

“I was wondering if the word jerk derives from the Latin word jealousy. Thought you could shed some light regarding that.” I smiled sweetly, cocking my head to look at him.

Jane sprayed her red wine across the table, making a choking sound that prompted Gerald to pat her back. Dad, Sam, and Hunter exchanged amused looks, chuckling under their breaths. Mom’s eyes glittered with pride. Sticking it to the big man ran in our family.

Cillian tucked his chin down, regarding me for the first time with faint interest, like my existence was a brand new thing he needed to consider.

“Do you think you’re clever, Miss Brennan?”

“Not a genius by any means, but I get by with my perfectly adequate, average IQ.” Another mocking smile touched my lips. “I’d ask you the same question, but I already know the answer. You think you’re the smartest person in the room.”

Cillian sat back and watched me, enjoying a private joke at my expense. “Prove me wrong.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” I made a show of taking my phone out of my purse. I knew it was the equivalent of taking a dump on the table as far as etiquette went, but I couldn’t help myself. I browsed through my images until I found the one I was looking for and passed my phone to Cillian across the table.

“Hunter’s IQ test from when he moved to Todos Santos,” I explained. “I found it in one of the packed boxes in our apartment. Actually, I can see all the Fitzpatrick siblings’ scores. Hunter must’ve packed them by accident. Your baby brother sits at 147 points, which marks him as a literal genius. Yours is merely 139. Still above average, but no 147. Now tell me, Cillian, is your math as good as your Latin?” I blinked innocently.

“Mo órga.” Gerald cleared his throat behind his napkin, signaling Cillian to kill this conversation.

But I couldn’t stop myself. I was on a roll.

Cillian sat back, refusing to show signs of discomfort.

“Measuring one’s competence by their IQ level is like measuring a horse by its coat.”

“Or a woman by her bra size, to put it in a form ceann beag could relate to,” Gerald jested, his potbelly wobbling with laughter.

Jane winced at her husband, slapping the tips of his fingers across the table. She muttered an apology to my parents. Dad and Mom exchanged looks, relieved. Compared to the Fitzpatricks, we were actually a normal family.

Sam, however, watched the entire thing, his eyes ping-ponging back and forth, with a smile behind his pint of Guinness. I had no idea where he’d gotten it. No one else was having Guinness. But this was my brother after all, the most resourceful man in Massachusetts.

Hunter sipped his water. I noticed he hadn’t touched his wine. Everybody in the room was probably under the assumption he’d devour his little treat. It was a long middle finger to what was expected of him. A tinge of pride prickled my chest.

“Thank you for explaining it to me in simple English, Athair. For a minute there I was, hysterically at a loss,” Hunter said.

“Do not speak out of turn,” Gerald warned, stabbing into his steak like it was his enemy.

“I wasn’t planning on speaking at all. Mom was hella adamant I be here, though.” Hunter fingered his chin, throwing the ball back to his father’s court.

“She has her vices. You are one of them.” Gerald turned his attention back to his steak.

“And you’re not, which is why I’m here, taunting the hell out of you with my presence alone,” Hunter deadpanned.

Aisling sucked in a breath, and Jane paled and coughed out her drink—her MO, apparently.

Gerald’s chair scraped back with a screeching sound. He rose to his feet, slapping the table with a roar. “Enough! It’s bad enough that you have brought shame on this family—”

“Don’t talk to him like that.” It was Jane’s turn to dart up to her feet. She looked even more frail and bony next to her husband.

I glanced between Hunter and Gerald, knowing I was missing a very big piece of the puzzle.

Jaw clenched, eyes dead, Hunter stood, turned around, and stalked out of the room. I couldn’t blame him. This house—this family—seemed to purge him whenever he made an attempt to fit in. His father despised him, his brother ridiculed him, and his mother was too weak to stop either of them.

I rose, pressing my fingertips to the table. I could feel all eyes but the Fitzpatrick parents’ on me. Dad, Mom, Sam, and Aisling watched my reaction to Hunter’s meltdown. Even Cillian eyed me, probably curious what other ill-mannered tricks I had up my sleeve.

“I just want you to know one thing.” I pointed at Gerald, feeling my eyes narrow into slits. “When I agreed to this arrangement, I thought I was helping a loving dad guide his son back to the right path. But you’re not loving, and honestly? You’re barely even a dad. You’re a patronizing, bigheaded schmuck. You have no right to be mad at Hunter for turning to booze and sex with random people. He never seems to get any love where he needs it the most—his family. Whatever failure you see in him, be sure to know a big slice of it is your own.”

Without waiting for his reaction, I turned away in the direction Hunter had gone, my veins sizzling with rage. I stomped my way along the wide corridor. It was long and vein-like, twisting here and there. Every time I thought I’d found the farthest part of the floor, I was met with another golden curve decorated by a statue that led to yet another corner. This house was too big to manage. I wondered if Aisling knew every part of it.

At some point, I noticed three granite steps leading to an untouched, heavily decorated family room. All the furniture was angled toward the glass door leading to a beautiful English garden. The door was slightly ajar—on purpose or by design, I’d never know. Without thinking, I pushed the glass door open all the way, stepping outside.

I knew wandering off unannounced after Hunter, whom I’d defended ruthlessly the entire night, looked suspicious, that his father was likely wondering if I, too, had drunk the Hunter Kool-Aid and succumbed to his charm. But I needed to calm myself, far away from the Fitzpatricks. My mother jogged to get rid of the humming energy beneath her flesh. Me? I used my arrow and bow. But I didn’t have them now.

I wanted to ruin something to make myself feel better, even if that something was myself.

The weather had cooled. The chilly breeze coated my bare arms as my heels dug into the damp earth under the lush grass of the backyard. Although calling it a backyard was the understatement of the universe. It was more like an entire meadow, stretched into a barbecue area with an Olympic-sized pool complete with sunbeds, and on the far right, there was some sort of ivy-covered, medieval-looking glass structure. I eyed it, wondering what it could be. I’d already gathered that Gerald Fitzpatrick liked flashing his wealth like a creeper on a subway.

What could be more excessive than a candy bar? Maybe the glass house was where Gerald kept his compassion and sympathy—sealed, locked, and shoved far away from the main property.

It wasn’t in my nature to be nosy, but I wanted to know if Hunter was there. The need to console him clawed at my skin.

I marched to the ivy-laced room, patting it for the door handle. I hoped it wasn’t locked. As I dragged my fingernails along the door, I felt a long, muscular arm stretch behind me, brushing my shoulder. I jumped back, gasping. The hand reached for a secret door handle nestled behind a thick coat of ivy, opening it effortlessly, creating a sliver of space between the door and its frame. An unnatural amount of light poured from the crack. My head twisted back, my blood roaring between my ears, signaling me it was a fight-or-flight kind of situation.

Hunter smiled down at me calmly. “Butterfly garden.”

“It’s exactly like your dad to cage the symbol of freedom in a small, confined room for entertainment purposes,” I muttered.

His eyes twinkled in amusement.

“And it’s hella you to make that kind of statement.”

I shrugged. “I’m not very good at keeping my mouth shut.”

“As you demonstrated at the table.”

“I hope I didn’t make it worse for you.”

“Nothing can make it worse for me, aingeal dian.” His sultry voice wrapped around my body like a snake. He didn’t sound angry or upset. Just sad.

“Where have you been?” I pushed away from him, struggling to swallow the lump in my throat.

“Waiting for your ass to figure out my whereabouts. Here, I want to show you something.”

He gave me a slight shove, pushing me into the room. The door closed behind us with a soft click. I blinked, getting used to the artificial light that attacked my retinas.

It was a moist, nearly blistering room, with a rounded see-through ceiling, lots of overhead lighting, and lavish, wild plants winding behind wooden bannisters. They looked like a curious audience behind red velvet ropes. The railings lined a walkway around the room. There were two rustic, arbor-covered benches on either side of the garden and an artificial pond covered with moss, surrounded by heavy gray stones. But the thing that made my knees buckle was the swarm of butterflies fluttering around us. Hundreds of them. Blue and orange. White, green, dotted, and striped, small and large. I followed them with my eyes, momentarily forgetting Hunter was in the room. I twirled in place as I surveyed one particular orange one, adorned with symmetrically perfect black dots. It beat around me happily, and I went very still, like I was getting ready to draw an arrow, my body hardening into stone. The butterfly rested on the tip of my nose, its little wings clapping together as it settled. I crossed my eyes comically to watch it.

“A few years ago, Da was caught having a sordid affair with a married woman. Not just any married woman, actually, Mom’s younger sister, Virginia. Her husband found out about it and tried to extort money from him. It worked—initially, anyway. But when Gin’s husband asked for shares in Royal Pipelines in exchange for his silence, I guess Da figured it was never going to go away completely unless he nipped it in the bud. He made a press release and confessed to having an affair with his wife’s sister, admitting they’d slept together many times, including in his marital bed. Mom was so pissed she kicked him out of the bedroom. But see, his legacy and company meant more to him than their marriage. It hardly even surprised my mother that he went and confessed to fucking her sister in front of the entire world. In a bid to win her forgiveness, Da made this butterfly garden for her, because butterflies are her favorite animal. And Mom, who couldn’t see the irony in that, accepted his apology. Needless to say, Gin, her husband, and my three cousins haven’t been invited to any Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners since then.”

“Jesus,” I breathed out, looking around the room and suddenly seeing it in a completely different light—tainted, somehow. “That’s insane.”

Hunter caught a butterfly in his hand, brought it to his face, and opened his palm, watching it fluttering away.

“Butterflies lead short, interesting, decadent lives. They live for about two weeks and never sleep. They do rest, on occasion. Otherwise, they’re always on the go. They prefer nectar to food, and just like me, they have three legs. But can I tell you the most striking fact about butterflies?”

Hunter’s hot mouth found the shell of my ear from behind, and my pulse stuttered, struggling to stay confined to the limits of my body. When had he gotten so close to me? When did he turn my body so I had my back to him?

I wanted to burst out of my skin and run away from him. From this. I closed my eyes, feeling my throat bob.

“Tell me,” I whispered, expecting the butterfly to fly away at the movement of my mouth. But no. It stayed on my face. I felt it flapping its wings lazily, sloping toward Hunter. Maybe it was waiting to hear his answer, too.

“Suspended development.” Hunter’s lips closed on the lobe of my ear, nibbling softly.

I shivered at the heat of his mouth, and his tongue swiped the velvety part of my ear. I wanted him to tear my dress, throw me on the ground, and take me from behind, making me the prey he so often told me I was.

“When the temperature drops to a certain degree, butterflies hibernate. They actually freeze in time—in age—waiting for summer to come and unchain them from the weather, to set them free. Butterflies can’t fly when they’re cold.”

“Like Sleeping Beauty,” I breathed, thinking about the hours, days, weeks, months, and years I’d been obsessed with proving I was better than Lana. No, not even better, just worthy. It was like being stuck in a constant winter, frozen, waiting for something I couldn’t even name.

Hunter grinned against my ear, his lips skimming down my throat, leaving a shudder in their wake. Our bodies were humming with something dangerous and carnal, and I wondered if people were looking for us. Someone could open the door and see us, and everything we’d worked for—everything we had on the line—would go up in flames.

But somehow, at this particular moment, I didn’t care.

“The prince is not going to save you, aingeal dian. He is stuck in his castle, fighting his own battle. Are you ready to step out of your comfort zone and live?” he asked, almost brokenly. I’d never seen him so bare, so raw. “You have to let life touch you. Drown a little with me, baby.”

I opened my mouth, not sure what was going to come out of it. The minute I did, the orange butterfly fluttered away, swirling in circles upwards, spiraling like smoke. It came to rest atop a fluorescent light. I felt the loss of it. I turned to face Hunter and placed both my palms on his chest, pretending to keep him away, but really, I was looking for an excuse to touch him again.

“You know, I always thought my dad was going to hate you, but I don’t think he does. I think he even likes you a little, in his own, very dry, very cautious way.” I cleared my throat, changing the subject lamely.

Hunter lowered his head, his lips puckering. “He thinks you’re so far out of my league, I don’t pose a threat.” He finished on a chuckle. “And he’s not wrong. As for my da, he wants to strangle you.”

“The feeling is mutual. Only difference is, if he tries to strangle me, my father will strangle him, and Sam will finish the job.” I quirked an eyebrow.

Hunter laughed, shoving his hands into his pockets. Butterflies danced around us, and I wondered why he wasn’t kissing me. Then I remembered I’d begged him not to.

The teenage idiot in me was disappointed that he’d respected my wishes.

“I’m glad you didn’t grow up here. This place is soul-crushing. I’m surprised Aisling turned out to be so awesome.”

“Aisling is like a cat. She’s got a good amount of souls.” He still wasn’t touching me, taking another step back.

Confused, I kept the conversation going. “I was going to ask, what did you mean by saying your dad is not your mother’s vice? That he doesn’t interest her?”

“She lost interest in him way before he took Gin to his bed.” Hunter cocked his head, smiling lazily. “But I also referred to the fact I’m not his. Biologically, anyway. Mom had an affair sometime between Cillian and Aisling, around the time she found out he was getting BJs from his secretary. It’s the best-kept secret of the Fitzgerald family. I found out at boarding school, through a friend of a friend whose dad knew mine. Apparently I was dubbed Beautiful Bastard at every country club on the East Coast because I was a cute kid, but hella illegitimate.”

My mouth nearly fell to the ground. Suddenly, I hated Jane as much as I did her husband.

“That is…” I started.

“A goddamn relief.” Hunter pretended to wipe his brow, chuckling to himself and taking another step back. He was almost at the door. I couldn’t figure out why he’d put space between us all of a sudden.

“I rarely throw the affair in my father’s face, but when I do, it always gives me the desired effect.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“Complete meltdown of the Fitzpatrick patriarch.”

“And your biological dad?” I stared at the ground when I asked. I was afraid of the answer.

Hunter waved the question off. “Not a person of interest. When I asked my mom, she pleaded insanity and said he was a male model who fucked off back to Eastern Europe after he was done with her. Which explains why I look nothing like Da, Cillian, and Aisling.”

Which explains why you look like a Greek god.

It helped me understand why he felt so hated here, why he was sent away, why he viewed himself as an airheaded playboy—a role his father had burdened him with, and he went along with. Hunter may have been one of the most sought-after bachelors in America, but the people he wanted attention and warmth from, his family, weren’t there for him.

He took another step back.

Suddenly, an overwhelming need to hug him consumed me, to a point where I wanted to squeeze the breath out of him until he knew he mattered to me.

“Why are you walking away from me?” I finally snapped, my brows furrowed. Hunter pushed the door open, took one step out the door.

“I would like to test a theory,” he said, moving one of his hands along his square, perfect jaw. “If I freeze you in friend-zone winter, will you run for my heat, or stay content with your useless little wings?”

“I’m not a butterfly.” I scowled, knowing he and my friends were right. I was catching feelings for him. I had the Hunter bug. But every time we came close to being something semi-real, I pulled away.

Now, I felt the urge to defy his father and his stupid agreement.

To break a promise.

To drown, lose gravity, make a mistake I couldn’t take back.

Hunter gave me his back, walking away, making the decision for us.

“You are my butterfly, Sailor. And maybe I’m not Gerald’s flesh and blood, but make no mistakes—when I finally catch you, I intend to capture you, too.”