Page 17 of Theirs to Hunt
By the time I reach the Treehouse, I’m half sweating, half losing my mind. My emotions are a blender without a lid and I need Bobbie to hit the emergency reset button. Gratefully, I slide into our usual booth.
Bobbie’s already there, hair in a messy bun, oversized hoodie, glass of sangria in one hand, cheese pizza in the other. She gives me a once-over and raises an eyebrow. “You look like you got kissed by the devil and liked it.”
I drop into the seat across from her with a groan. “I think I did.”
“Was he hot?”
“Obnoxiously.”
She nods, like it explains everything, then hands me a drink as if she’s officiating some kind of dark romance communion. “Start from the top.”
I take a long sip, set the glass down, and meet her eyes. “He called me Bambi,” I say, slow and serious, testing the weight of it.
Bobbie’s eyes widen. “No.”
“I mean… maybe a different context?” I hedge. “He said I looked like a deer in the headlights. So it could’ve been a nickname thing. A metaphor. Not a creepy mask party callback.”
I don’t even sound convinced, and Bobbie’s face says she’s not buying it either. But still. I want it to be nothing. Because if it’s not? Then he knows. And if he knows… I’m already in too deep.
I lean in. “And then he kissed me. Right here.” I point to the corner of my mouth like it’s a battle wound.
Bobbie sits back, looking way too pleased. “Well, shit. And I thought my day was exciting because I found a vein on the first try.”
“Bobbie. Focus.”
She hides a smirk behind her glass.
The bell over the door jingles. I glance up and nearly drop my drink. It’s him. Same hoodie. That hair, seriously wasted on a man. Well, not in his case. Thick, wild, mythological predator vibes. Amber eyes that should be illegal in indoor lighting.
He doesn’t even look at me. Heads to the bar, all confidence and zero fucks.
“Order for Reign,” the bartender calls out.
Rain? Oh my God. Of course his name is Rain. Because now I’m wet. My thighs actually clench like I’m in some YA paranormal and he just growledmine.I choke on my sangria.
Bobbie turns to look and freezes. “Is that him?”
I nod. Eyes wide. Mouth dry. Whole system fried.
She glances at the bartender. “Did he say Rain?”
“I think so,” I croak. “Which… is fitting. Because I am. Soaking. Wet.”
Bobbie slaps a hand over her mouth, trying not to laugh. “Jesus Christ, you’re unwell.”
“Physically, emotionally, spiritually,” I whisper.
We watch in silence as he walks back out into the night.
Chapter seventeen
Brooks, Monday 09:00 p.m.
Idon’t look at her when I walk in.I don’t need to. I felt her the second the door opened. The shift in the room. The way the air changed. Something warm and vibrant had suddenly snapped into place. I could sense her stress, her sweat, her damn arousal.
Bambi.
Women always try to talk themselves out of what they know. She’s not ready to believe it’s me. Good. Let her stew in it. Let her question everything.
