Page 64 of Theirs to Hunt
Inside, a note is already waiting on the kitchen island.
Reservation confirmed.
Commander’s.
7:30.
Wine cellar.
Grayson catches my eye.
“It’s dressy. We’ll give you time to get ready.”
Brooks smirks.
“I may have picked something up for tonight.”
Of course he did.
When I head upstairs, the bedroom is empty. The door to the en suite is cracked open, warm light spilling through. I push it open and pause.
The bath is already drawn. Steam curls from the surface, scented with jasmine and something softly sweet. A bath bomb fizzes merrily in the water, trailing pink and white swirls along the edge of the tub.
My Kindle rests on a towel within arm’s reach. Next to it, a glass of red wine and the jasmine lotion I always buy but rarely take the time to use. A soft black robe is folded across the counter, clean and plush.
Brooks had been here.
I quickly shed my clothes, knowing by the setup that they will give me privacy. While they don’t give me room, they do give me space. Alone or quiet reflection time. They stay close enough to let me feel their strength without being suffocated.
I sink into the water slowly, letting it wrap around me. Warm, fragrant, indulgent in the quietest way. Just care.
I close my eyes and exhale.
It’s the first day I haven’t texted Bobbie. Not because I forgot. And not because anything is wrong. I just didn’t need to. And I know she didn’t either.
She’s with Devon. And whatever that is, it’s looking real, based on how cagey she had been about him when I asked, and then after what I saw between them at the club.
Bobbie has always been this way, though. She wants to make sure before she talks about it, makes sure it’s real.
Unlike me. I say everything out loud and hope it makes sense. She doesn’t chase it. She waits. And when it’s real, she lets it in.
Two weeks ago, none of this would’ve made sense. Her, with Devon. Me, here. Both of us brushing up against something that feels bigger than we know how to name.
We didn’t expect it. But maybe that’s the point.
Not all good things come slow. Some just arrive, unexpected, undeniable, and exactly on time.
Chapter fifty-four
Reagan, Saturday 07:00 p.m.
The private wine cellar is candlelit and cool, lined with vintage bottles and deep green velvet drapes.
Jazz floats up from the dining room above, low and golden, a heartbeat behind the luxury.
Grayson wears a black suit, no tie, top button undone.
Brooks is in navy, hair loose around his face, amber eyes catching fire every time he glances at me.
