Page 43 of Hunter

“Well, Marcia’s young enough to be your daughter.”

He chuckles at that, the sound low and lovely.

“If I had her when I was ten.”

“She’s still too young for you,” she amends.

“I guess we’re better off with each other.”

“I guess so,” I agree.

“Not that we’retogether,” he quickly adds.

“Not at all.”

“It’s just temporary.”

“Which is for the best,” I add, “considering everything.”

He glances at me, a smile playing on the corners of his gorgeous mouth. “I’m having fun with you, Bella.”

“Me, too.” I pause for a second, then turn slightly to face him. “When we were dancing…I sensed a—I don’t know—change…in you. You got serious or something.”

He leans his hip against the railing and looks at me.

“It was that song ‘Viva la Vida.’ It was popular the summer after my mom died.”

I wasn’t expecting him to say that. Not at all. I’m not prepared for the simple terribleness of his words, and it flusters me.

“Oh. Oh, Hunter. I’m so…I-I mean, I knew your mom had passed away…I’m so sorry for asking.”

“Don’t be,” he says, taking a deep breath. “It was a long time ago.”

“But songs take you back.”

He snaps his fingers. “In an instant.”

“How did she…?”

“Avalanche,” he says. “She was doing a heli-skiing tour in January of that year. She’d done them a million times, and nothing had ever gone wrong. It was a fluke. It was…”

“A tragedy.”

“Yeah,” he says, bowing his head and readjusting his hands on the railing, clenching hard, then releasing.

“I’m so sorry.” I cover one of his hands with one of mine and squeeze gently. “How old were you?”

“Fifteen. I turned sixteen that October.”

He moves his hand a little, lacing his fingers through mine so we’re holding hands.

“Sixteen,” I whisper.

“Yeah.” He turns to me. “What were you like at sixteen?”

“I spent that summer in Mexico with my aunt and uncle.”

“I love Mexico! Where do your aunt and uncle live?”

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