Page 31 of Coach's Temptation

I stop mid-chew.

Mom sighs. “Harold. No.”

“What?” Dad shrugs, like he’s making the most logical statement in the world. “If she had a boyfriend, maybe she’d have a second income. A backup plan. Someone to—”

I shove my chair back, the legs scraping against the hardwood with a nails-on-a-chalkboard screech that makes Mom slam her hands on her ears.

“Welp. That’s my cue.”

Both of them look up, startled.

Mom frowns. “You barely touched your—”

“Dinner was great. Really.Fantastic.Love what you did with the potatoes, Mom. But I gotta go.”

I push away from the table, my pulse pounding in my ears as I grab my overnight bag and swing it over my shoulder.

My dad lifts his beer. “Where you going?”

“Somewhere that isn’t here.”

Mom huffs, waving a hand. “Oh, stop being dramatic, Natalie.”

I pause at the door, grip tightening around the handle.

“I’m not being dramatic,” I say, quieter this time. “I just know I don’t want this.”

I motion vaguely at the house, at them, at the warped atmosphere of the room that's grown so thick over the years that it could be bottled and sold as a mood killer.

Before either of them can say another word, I step out into the night and in my car. The hum of the engine vibrates my hands as I grip the steering wheel, the headlights of my car cutting through the quiet.

I don’t check my GPS. I don’t need to.

My hands know where to turn. My foot knows how hard to press the gas.

The route is burned into my memory.

Past the Summit Café, past the Ridgeview Tavern, past the edge of town where the roads twist into the mountains.

And then—there it is.

A large, intimidating mountain home, warm light glowing from the windows, standing against the night like it’s been waiting for me.

My heart pounds.

And now, I have no idea what happens next.

Chapter Eight

Hunter

Ilump another chunk of butter in the pan, because why the fuck not?

It sizzles and melts around my thick-cut steak, the cast iron pan hissing when I spoon the rich garlic and red wine sauce over the crust. A rich, smoky aroma rises into the air, mixing the freshly cut rosemary I snatched from the garden before the sun went down.

This is routine. Control.

The only damn thing keeping my damn head on straight right now.

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