Page 63 of Theirs to Hunt
Socks stacked. Folded.
Order. Not chaos.
Each item in its place. Each one a reminder she belongs.
Her voice breaks the quiet. Teasing. A deflection.
“Since you seem to enjoy putting my things away, where did you stash my vibrators?”
I do not pause.
“Top drawer. Left side. Next to the Agent Provocateur sets we purchased for you.”
I glance up. Hold her eyes. A flicker of challenge.
“You want me to leave them there?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares.
I don’t fill the silence.
Because everything in this room already does.
Chapter fifty-three
Reagan, Saturday 01:00 p.m.
The sun is warm but gentle as we step out through the back doors, Grayson on one side, Brooks on the other.
Grayson takes my hand as I step down the first step, while Brooks comes along beside me and puts his arm around my back, his hand slipping into my back shorts pocket. The morning haze has lifted, leaving the air fresh and tinged with magnolia.
I’m in denim shorts and a soft black tank I’ve never seen before, but it was hanging in the closet where Grayson had put my things.
The backyard opens into something more estate than yard, mature live oaks dripping with moss, wrought iron benches set in quiet corners, and a cobblestone path that winds past a manicured rose garden toward a fenced-in orchard I didn’t even know existed. The property stretches endlessly.
“This place is unreal,” I say under my breath.
“You could get lost out here.”
Grayson doesn’t look at me, but his voice is low, amused.
“Well, that was planned, but we aren’t ready to talk about that.”
We start the slow walk, no rush in our steps. Brooks points out the outdoor kitchen and grill station, saying he and Grayson host cookouts “when they feel like pretending to be normal.”
There’s a pool, long and narrow, built for laps more than play. It spills into a private grotto at the far end. Beyond it? A two-story guesthouse, pale blue with dark shutters and a wraparound porch.
“For future use,” Grayson says casually.
“For Bobbie,” Brooks clarifies with a glance at me. “Or for when you need space.”
I don’t answer, but the thought lands soft.
We walk for over an hour. They show me the gym, the converted barn-turned-workshop, even a chicken coop tucked in the trees with eggs already collected for tomorrow’s breakfast.
There’s a kind of quiet joy to it, watching them show me this world they’ve built, this private kingdom they’re letting me into.
By the time we circle back to the house, my shoulders are sun-warmed, and my feet ache a little from the walk.
