Page 40 of Hunter

Chapter 7

Hunter

Team Sofa Kings is eliminated in Sitka because one of them suffered from a previously undiagnosed, but totally debilitating, case of ornithophobia. His trip to the Raptor Center had him breathing so fast and so hard, it won him a visit to the local ER, thereby killing his chances of winning the race. We watched them go—a sad, double dad-bod shuffle off the ship, followed by a ride in a van to the Sitka airport. They were off to Utqiagvik, where they’d join Team Barbie in exile.

In Juneau, Team Outlaws, who had emerged as the team with the most physical strength and stamina, were almost eliminated when they had trouble unraveling the clues of a downtown Juneau scavenger hunt. When they come in last at the pit stop, they are elated to learn that the Juneau leg is one of two non-elimination rounds in the race, and they’re safe…for now.

As we cruise toward Skagway that night, there are eight teams still remaining, including Team Primos, who are currently in third place, after Team Newlyweds and Team Soul Sisters who kicked ass on the scavenger hunt challenge. Bringing up the rear with Team Outlaws is Team Mom and Pop, who are starting to look very tired.

Because we’re a quarter done with filming, there’s a party on the ship tonight for the cast and crew, and I’m looking forward to it. Kit and I have worked hard to make Ketchikan, Sitka and Juneau run smoothly, and we’re a damn good team, in spite of (or maybe even because of) having to carry Rick’s dead weight.

I get to the lounge, which has been decorated with royal blue and white balloons. There’s a buffet dinner available, and the bar is open, too. The show even sprang for a band, so there’s live music and a parquet floor for dancing. My eyes slide over to the dance floor, hoping for a glimpse of Isabella, and sure enough, there she is, dancing with one of the crew members.

Bella.My lips spread into a grin. She gets under my skin faster than any other woman on the face of the earth.

We’ve only spent four nights together so far—that first night as we left Ketchikan, two in and out of Sitka, and one when we arrived in Juneau last night. Because we both have roommates, we can’t spend a whole night together, but that doesn’t mean we don’t make the most of the time we have.

Physically, our connection is just as hot and urgent as it was last summer, almost like we didn’t lose a year of time between then and now. Our bodies work in tandem, fitting together like lock and key, undulating like ocean waves, leading us to soul-rocking climaxes that satiate in the moment, but build cravings so sharp and strong, we reach for each other in desperation the moment we are alone together again.

I’ve noticed that we don’t talk that much between orgasms, and when we do, our conversations are careful. We talk about the race and the other teams. We talk about the boat. We talk about Alaska and where we’re headed next. We stay in the present, wary of saying or doing anything that could threaten the delicate balance that allows us to enjoy intense physical pleasure without the risk of falling for each other.

And yet, a couple of times, despite this care and caution, I’ve felt myself slipping over the line of casual fling into the perilous territory of catching feelings. When I do, I make an effort to recalibrate my expectations. Isabella was very clear with me: she’s not looking for anything serious with me. I’m Mr. Right Now, not Mr. Right—er, um, Mr. Perfectly Suitable—andI’m committed to enjoying the moment without any hopes for a future together.

I grab a beer from the bar and join Kit, who’s sitting alone on a leather love seat by the windows.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” I ask her.

“I don’t dance much,” she says, looking up from her phone.

“Me neither,” I say. “I’ve got no rhythm and no grace. Jiggling around on a dance floor makes me feel like an idiot.”

“Maybe nobody ever taught you how,” she says. “Bet I know someone who could.”

We’re both staring at Isabella, who’s dancing with a tall, blond guy a few years older than me, but still pretty good looking. He’s wearing an officer’s uniform, but I don’t remember meeting him.

“Who’s she dancing with?”

Kit squints. “Um…I think that’s Yuri.”

“Yuri? Tell me you’re Russian without telling me you’re Russian.”

“Maybe.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. He doesn’t speak with an accent.”

“What’s with his outfit?” I ask, narrowing my eyes at his hand on Isabella’s lower back. It’s a little too close to her ass for my comfort.

“His…uniform? He’s, like, the first officer or navigator or something. That’s what he wears.”

I continue to glare at his hand.

“Hey, Hunter Stewart,” says Kit, knocking her knees into mine. “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“What? No!” I shake my head at her like she’s crazy, then shift my gaze back to handsy fucking Yuri. “But I’m gonna knock his block off if that hand slips any lower.”

Kit hoots with laughter. “Men are ridiculous. How I’d hate to be a slave to testosterone.” She goes back to her phone for asecond, leaving me to brood. A few minutes later, she looks up again. “So, what’s your move, tiger?”

“My…move?”

“Whether you like dancing or not, maybe you should cut in.”

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