The Hunter: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Boston Belles Book 1)

On Monday, I woke up to a picture of me in the local newspaper, ducking my head down while following Hunter to a limo on our way out of the fundraiser.

“The Hunter Games: Royal Pipelines Playboy Caught Canoodling Archery Mistress Sailor Brennan!” screamed the headline, which I thought was both incorrect and unwitty.

I figured Gerald was behind this, and also knew he had decided to market his son and me as a couple to tame Hunter’s disastrous image, so I tried to tell myself I didn’t care—all while shoving the newspaper to the bottom of my duffel bag, making sure Junsu couldn’t find it.

As it turned out, a couple days later it didn’t really matter.

“The boy. He’s here again,” Junsu announced solemnly, his hands clasped behind his back, a disapproving pucker on his lips.

Ignoring him, I lifted my bow, which looked like an arm ripped from a Transformer robot, drawing a breath to regain my composure. It had taken me forty-eight hours to get my head straight after the stupid fundraiser. I spent Sunday with Persy, Belle, and Aisling, eating cupcakes, watching Riverdale, and talking about anything other than Hunter Fitzpatrick. I realized one dance meant nothing in the grand scheme of life. The fact of the matter was, Hunter was scrolling through pictures of half-naked girls in the limo after our so-called moment. I got temporarily blinded by his looks, but checked myself quickly. Now, it was time to focus on what truly mattered: archery.

My eyes zoomed in on the target, and I imagined it was Hunter’s beautiful face. I released the arrow, watching it travel the 76.5 yards to its destination and landing on the eight-point ring.

I knew it had nothing to do with my lack of cold-eyed precision and everything to do with my sore right shoulder, but every time I complained to Junsu, he said it was the usual discomfort athletes had to deal with.

“You think it is any different in judo, fencing, and artistic swimming? They all hurt. Art is pain, Sailor.”

I lowered the bow, adjusting my ball cap before plucking another arrow from the stack beside me.

“Did you hear what I said?” Junsu asked. His stern gaze prickled my skin with awareness.

“Loud and clear.” I punched the timer on my watch to twenty seconds, the time given Olympic archers when they reached the finals, and began to draw the arrow. I’d been shooting between two hundred and three hundred arrows a day, working day and night.

“Well?” he said impatiently. “Shoo him away. He is waiting outside.”

I shot the second arrow—this time imagining the target to be Hunter’s elusive, cold heart—watching as it got the seven-point ring.

Shoot. I needed a steroid shot or I was going to perform miserably this week.

I twisted my neck to look at Junsu, smiling calmly. “Acknowledging him would encourage him. As I said before, he is not my boyfriend. If he decides to visit me here, I have no control over it, but I’m not going to stop my training because of it.”

Junsu didn’t mention Hunter again, and I tried not to think about his presence here. I sucked for the remainder of the practice.

Half an hour later, I strolled out of the shooting range to my car, surprised to find Hunter leaning against my trunk in his pristine navy suit, his arms and legs crossed.

He waited outside all this time?

“So this is how living in the doghouse feels.” He spread his arms, gesturing to an imaginary kennel, his words seasoned with buoyancy.

“If you’re about to make a bitch joke, please spare the world, and while you’re at it, get off my trunk,” I shot back.

Hunter surprised me by obliging, muttering something about things he would like to do with my trunk that had nothing to do with my vehicle.

I popped the trunk open, dumping my gear inside. I slammed it shut, feeling the sweet, curling pressure of excitement escalating in my chest despite my best efforts. When I turned around, Hunter was there, in my face. Closer than the time we’d danced together. He planted his hands on either side of me, on my car, his lips inches from mine.

“You’re avoiding me,” he hissed.

“So are you.”

My roommate hadn’t exactly sought me out since the fundraiser, other than the unanswered text messages. Truth was, I had no right to be hurt because he was checking out other women, and he had no right to interrupt me while I was training. The lines were beginning to blur, and I didn’t like it.

Hunter’s thumbs touched the edge of my butt from either side, and I wondered if it was on purpose. “Just gave you time to calm your tits. Obviously, they still need some chilling.”

“Obviously,” I said flatly, pushing at his chest. He didn’t budge. I looked up, frowning.

“Out of my way, Prince Syphilis.”

“Have dinner with me, Princess Psychotic.”

“Go away. I’ll see you at home.”

“Not at home. Somewhere else. Somewhere public. Somewhere fun.”

He said the word fun like it was an awful profanity. Like fun was my archenemy. He sounded like my parents. Sure, I had fun. I just didn’t have it with boys.

Or outside of my room.

Fine, maybe I could use some help in the fun department.

“There’s perfectly edible food at home. Nora, the cook—”

“Fuck Nora in the ass with a spatula. You don’t eat outside because you’re hungry. You do it for the goddamn experience. It’s an indulgence.”

“Something you’d know all about,” I huffed, hating that he smelled like laundry detergent and male, and another thing that made my stomach dip pleasurably.

“Yup.” He flicked my ear, taking a step back when he realized I was going to relent.

And I was. Because deep down, I knew I had no right to give him grief. He was making good progress on all fronts, and I was his babysitter. I should be more involved.

I tugged my car keys out of my pocket and winced as my shoulder burned with pain. How on Earth was I going to drive?

Hunter read my mind and snatched the keys from my hand, rounding my car, a bounce in his step.

“Allow me. You’ll probably get us there sometime next Thursday. My delinquent ass can donut our way and still get there faster.”

I was going to protest, but he was actually doing me a favor. The best thing I could do right now was give my shoulder some rest and ice it when we got home. I slid into the passenger seat, careful to close the door with my healthy left arm.

“Where to?” I buckled, peering at him when I was sure he was busy trying to arrange his long limbs into my space. He looked comically big, his knees touching the steering wheel on both sides. He adjusted my seat, starting the car.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises.”

“Shocker. Close your eyes until we get there.” He backed out of the parking spot at thirty miles per hour, gunning out of the lot like a demon. In the rearview mirror, I saw Junsu standing on the stairs to the club, brows furrowed, hands on his hips.

Not happy.

“I can’t,” I heard my voice through the pounding panic in my head. Technically, Junsu couldn’t tell me what to do. He couldn’t tell me who to date. Lana Alder dated all the time. She’d even had a high-profile affair with that actor who played the new Spiderman. “I’ll get nauseous.”

“Damn, Sailor. Way to crap on carpe diem.” Hunter reached over to pat my thigh, and I inwardly winced.

I was wearing yoga pants and a bland DriFit shirt and looked like Ed Sheeran in tights. He, on the other hand, looked like he was attending the Oscars. Hunter headed toward the highway at a speed more fitting for a plane taking off.

“So how come the daughter of the infamous Troy Brennan is such a dork?” he asked conversationally.

“First of all, my father is a reputable businessman unless proven otherwise.” I repeated the words Dad had told me to say ever since I was old enough to talk. People felt the urge to poke and prod about the patriarch of my family like it was a national sport.

Hunter snorted, keeping his eyes on the road. “And second of all?”

“We’re not our parents. Case in point, your father runs one of the largest corporations in America, and you, in contrast, are an amateur porn star.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve seen me in action?” A grin curved over his face.

“Nope. You asked me not to Google you, remember?”

“Before I realized you could handle me. Shame. New customers get the first ride free.”

“I’ll pass. I hear the movie is better.”

He howled with laughter, his voice sexy and gruff. Determined to ignore the butterflies swarming in my chest, I stared out the window, munching on the skin around my thumbnail.

“For your information, Alice, the chick you caught me checking out on Saturday, is just a friend.”

“Does that mean you haven’t slept with her?” My eyes were still trained on the darkness outside, but hope flared in my stomach. We were driving outside of Boston, up north.

“Nah, I’ve slept with her plenty, but she’s a total herb. Plus, she doesn’t use my balls as Baoding balls like you do. With you, I’m outmatched, outwitted, and outrageously irritated.”

“So what are you saying? That I’m too smart and mouthy to be your friend?”

“You’re too everything. I’m happy to pop your cherry, but let me give you a piece of advice—you need to tone the intensity down. I think the only thing I can beat you at is polo.”

“And a fistfight,” I mused, not correcting his assumption that I was a virgin.

You shouldn’t care, and he should never find out.

“Debatable.” He side-eyed me.

“Anyway, I know how to horseback ride.” I pressed my furnace-hot cheek against the cool window. Whenever I was around Hunter, I felt like my IQ dropped forty points. Nature was a jackass like that. My brain told me to stay the hell away, but my body begged to reproduce with this beautifully destructive male specimen.

“Polo takes more than being an accomplished equestrian.”

“I can take down a galloping horse blindfolded with one arrow,” I reminded him. “So technically, I can still beat you at polo.”

He laughed again, shaking his head.

“Never met a girl who can be so ice cold and fire hot at the same time. One second I think you’re for sure gonna faint if I touch your hand, the other I’m certain you’re about to kill me in my sleep. You’re a trip, CT.”

Hunter parked my car on a graveled road outside an old tavern in the middle of nowhere. The Tudor-style pub’s chimney produced a white trail of smoke, spiraling up to a cloudless, starless sky. There was the faint noise of crickets, the highway beyond the trees, and maybe an owl.

“How do you know about this place? I’ve lived here my entire life and never heard of it. You barely even know Boston.” I unfastened my seatbelt. As I said it, I realized the implication of this truth. Hunter had grown up away from his family, in a foreign land, with strangers.

Yesterday, Aisling had told us she got to spend her childhood in Boston entirely by chance. An all-girl boarding school opened in our area before she hit first grade. It helped that her parents went easier on her academically, since she was a girl, and Gerald never put pressure on her to join the family business. But Cillian and Hunter were both sent abroad promptly after their sixth birthday, and while Cillian completed his high school education in New England, Hunter was sent all the way to California so his parents didn’t have to deal with him.

Hunter slid out of the car. “I was on the road with my nanny coming back from a polo match this one time when I was a kid. Our car broke down, and it was pissing rain, so we went in and she let me have French fries, a greasy burger, and a milkshake. It was the first time I had French fries. Up until then, it was only the organic bullshit the personal chef made. Da happened to be in the area, so he picked us up himself. It was the first time he ever did that—like, spent time with me in the middle of the day and shit.”

He frowned, like he’d just realized why this place was special for him.

For all his formidable reputation, my father had rarely missed any of my tough tumbler classes. He let me have whatever treats I wanted, and had a second gig as my personal chauffeur until I got my license. We spent Saturdays going to Sam’s MMA tournaments, and both my parents were constant fixtures in our lives.

“Anyway, every time I visit my parents, I come here. Sometimes I take Aisling. I don’t really have a crew here, so when she can’t make it, I come alone.”

He pushed the old wooden door open. We ambled into an orange-lit, loud pub with three long rows of hand-carved wooden tables and matching benches. It looked like an inn straight out of a Game of Thrones episode, complete with loud Gaelic music and workmen gulping ale from pints. The scent of smoked meat, warm beer, and sweat curled into my nostrils.

I felt my body stiffening. I hated loud, crowded places.

Especially loud, crowded places jam-packed with strange men.

Especially seeing as I was here with soft-palmed Hunter, who was about as protective as a piece of used gum.

Every bone in my body screamed at me to turn around and do a U-turn. I wasn’t a scaredy cat, but I was the only woman in this place, and I knew I’d invite some commentary with my boyish attire and wild hair. Hunter nudged me forward, asking the waiter who came to meet us at the door where we could sit.

“Just wherever, man. Place’s packed.” A pimply teenager with two trays full of mushy peas, mashed potatoes, and roasts floated around the room, yelling the order numbers that came out of the kitchen through the chatter, laughter, and music.

We sat down, sandwiched between two old men who talked over their beers and a pack of construction workers, their faces and clothes covered in dust. The two who sat by Hunter and me looked young and had a Southern twang. A pile of foamed, empty glasses of beer sat between them as a barrier. They were obviously intoxicated, based on their slurring and slow conversation.

I fidgeted with my fingers under the table. Hunter ordered both of us root beer, earning an approving smile from me. He proceeded to frown at the menu, fingering the wooden horse peeking through his dress shirt. Rolling my thumb over the edge of the menu, I watched the little horse pressed against the blanket of his fair chest hair, and idly wondered where my brain was, because I definitely didn’t bring it with me to this pub. I finally understood the phrase stupid hot.

Hunter’s hotness made me stupid.

“What’s up with the horse?” I cleared my throat, frowning at my menu before he could catch me ogling him.

Hunter withdrew his hand from it, realizing what he was doing.

“Oh, this old shit?” He chuckled, snatching the root beer the waiter gave us and taking a drink to buy time. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me how you got it anyway.” I linked my fingers together, placing my chin over my knuckles. The guy next to me burped loudly, a warm gust of meat-breath fanning the side of my face.

I breathed through my mouth, trying not to gag.

“When I was a kid, whenever I was home from boarding school, my parents used to throw a nanny or two on my ass so they wouldn’t have to spend time with me. On my sixth…no, eighth nanny, Da decided I needed to learn how to play polo. I was being kind of a prick about it. That summer, Nanny Number Eight—shit if I remember her name, but she was Swedish—had to physically wrestle me into the car before practice every day. I hated horses with a passion. What’s to like about the fuckers? They smell, they sleep while standing, and have no gag reflex—which, if I may say, makes them rad fuck buddies, but horrible dining mates. But I digress. So I guess my Swedish nanny was starting to get a little worried for her job because I was displaying resistance—also known as being a goddamn kid. One day she gave me this Dala horse as a gift. Told me the Swedish believe it brings good luck, and I’d never fall from a horse if I wore it. Mind you, I believed in Santa until I was, like, thirteen, so of course I bought it.”

“And did you? Fall from a horse, I mean?”

He looked up from the menu, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Nope. Zero scratches. No car accidents, either.”

“You remember.” I stared at him pointedly. I knew the truth of my statement. It burned in my bones.

“Remember what?” His face was carefully blank.

“The name of that Swedish nanny.”

He remembered it because he cared. But he didn’t want to care. Hunter wasn’t stupid at all. He just built walls upon walls around himself that made it difficult to get through to him, because in his experience, people weren’t there to stay.

He flashed me a devilish grin. “Sorry, sweets, I don’t. What about you? How’d you get into archery, anyway? That shit’s deader than Henry the Sixth.”

Hunter took another sip of his root beer, a dark mustache forming on his upper lip. He licked it clean, and I watched as his tongue slowly swept across his mouth. I felt my throat bob. It reminded me he never had cashed in our kiss.

Maybe he forgot all about it after your meltdown at the fundraiser.

“You’ll laugh,” I warned.

“Naturally.”

I looked down. “It’s a cliché, actually. Robin Hood. Specifically, when I was little, I loved the idea of being an outlaw who’s also good. Maybe because my dad…” I paused, swallowing the shame in my throat.

“Is a respectable businessman unless proven otherwise?” Hunter quirked an eyebrow.

I laughed, feeling myself blush. “Exactly. The rumors about him chased me. His alleged sins were mine, too. I’m sure you know what it’s like to be defined by other family members.”

Hunter nodded. “Straight up.”

“I liked the narrative of Robin Hood, the romanticizing of a criminal. He seeks adventure, steals from the rich, and gives to the poor. Also, the fox in the Disney film was very orange, like my hair,” I admitted, warranting more of Hunter’s addictive laughter.

It somehow drowned out all the other noise, even from the guy next to me, who was now chain-cursing at his friend. He spoke animatedly, with his hands, and sometimes elbowed me when he tried to demonstrate something.

“Besides, I always wanted to know how to use a weapon. Guns are cold, metallic, impersonal; archery requires patience, precision, and passion,” I concluded. “Once I got into it, it became an addiction. It was a safe haven from the chatter about my family, about me. I guess by now you can tell I don’t have a ton of friends, so this helped burn time after school.”

It was unlike me to open up to someone, especially a stranger, and a beautiful, male one at that. I sounded like a reject, but if Hunter felt I was oversharing or pitied me, his face didn’t betray it.

He nodded, seeming to consider my words. “I’m glad you found your calling.”

“I’m sorry you haven’t.” I put my hands on the table between us, expecting…what? That Hunter would gather them in his?

He didn’t, of course.

The waiter materialized behind my back to take our orders. I swiveled awkwardly, realizing for the first time that I hadn’t even looked at the menu yet.

I was about to ask for a few more minutes when Hunter boomed behind me, “We’ll both take the pot roast with gravy, onions, and roasted potatoes, with a side of stuffed portabellas. Also, I’ll tip you twenty bucks for every time you bring a shot of Baileys to the lady when she blushes. Can you do that for us, old sport?”

The pimply waiter didn’t even bother carding us. He flashed his yellow teeth in a grin, nodded, collected our menus, and dashed to the window separating the bar from the kitchen with our order.

I turned to Hunter. He wore the lopsided grin of a misunderstood villain.

“You’re not driving, and seeing as I’m fully sober and celibate, I figured I’ll even the score.”

“In reverse,” I noted.

“It is my favorite position.” He opened his arms exaggeratedly, not caring if he bumped into other people’s shoulders in the process.

That made me blush, and he laughed, muttering, “Easy prey.”

Luckily, the waiter had his back to us, because it hadn’t even been three seconds since he left. I was going to be so screwed by the end of the evening. Also, so drunk.

“So… You said you don’t know what to do with your life.” I redirected him back to our conversation.

The man who sat beside me scoffed, turning his body toward me, but I didn’t swivel to meet his gaze. It was probably just in my head, anyway. I was minding my own business. Why would he look at me strangely?

“I’m brick dumb, yo. Of course I’ve no clue what I want to do with myself. I’m only good at partying, fucking, and drinking semi-responsibly. Not many people pretend to think otherwise. In fact, I’ve been told very few times that I have potential, and each time I was, I hated it. Potential is like a twelve-inch dick on an impotent: dazzlingly useless. ’Sides, I don’t need potential. I’ve known I was going to take over Royal Pipelines with Cillian since I was four.” Hunter knocked the rest of his root beer down, smacking the empty pint on the table.

My eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “Whoa. That’s young.”

“My future was written for me long before I was born. Just as well, as I’d have probably been too lazy to write it myself.”

“And if you could choose?” I pressed. “What would you want to do with your life if you weren’t a Fitzpatrick?”

The man next to me was now laughing with his friend, slapping the wooden table. Utensils and glasses rattled, dancing against the wooden surface. Hunter seemed completely oblivious to him. He was confident and nonchalant. Things like that didn’t register for him.

“I don’t know. I could be a DJ. Or maybe I could be a male prostitute. But only for hot chicks. And I would probably be too nice to charge them. Wait, there’s a name for that. Tinder.”

Hunter laughed at his own words, but the light in his eyes switched off.

I stayed silent for a few beats, considering the way he saw himself. Finally, I said, “I think you’re talented in a lot of ways. I think you’re funny and stupidly likeable and carry an energy inside you that’s explosive and enviable. You can make anyone feel comfortable around you, and that’s something they don’t teach you at college. You are charming, confident, and could talk your way out of a murder charge. You could probably be very helpful to your father’s company, but maybe not crunching numbers. What about public relations, or—”

“Jesus Christ, man. Unzip his pants and suck him off, already,” the man beside me snapped.

He blasted into frantic, slurred laughter, coiling his fist and offering it to Hunter for a pound. He was promptly left hanging, as Hunter stared him down with an expression that suggested he was going to maim him with his empty pint glass. The man dropped his fist, raising both palms in surrender.

“All I’m saying is you’re wasting your time with Wilma Flintstone over here. I died a little listening to her salivating all over your lap. Don’t you have a friend to save you from this date from hell? Did she scam you into thinking she’s hot on Bumble? What’s going on? Y’all don’t look like a natural fit.”

The guy beside Hunter—Rude Guy’s companion—coughed out a potato chip, almost toppling backwards on the bench with laughter. A few people stopped what they were doing, quieted, and sent curious glances our way.

The taunts hit me like hail. Hard and painful and cruel, like that boy on the balcony in the wintertime who didn’t want to go away.

Like Hunter felt when I first saw him.

I felt the heat of the humiliation on my cheeks, the sting of tears stabbing the back of my eyeballs. There were many things I wanted to say, scream, throw in the man’s face, but I couldn’t. I was too frozen to speak up.

And Hunter…Hunter just stared at him.

“Look, man, you’ve got the looks. You obviously make a fine buck with how you dress. You can do so much better than this ratty-looking thing,” the guy continued, throwing a thumb my way. “Just sayin’ what everyone in this room is thinking right now.” He grabbed his beer and finished his drink in one gulp, throwing the empty pint behind his shoulder comically, wiggling his brows. The pint smashed on the floor.

Nobody laughed. Nobody spoke. Nobody breathed.

Hunter’s left eye twitched—just the one tic. Other than that, he was very still.

I wanted to die. To cry. To shoot a poisonous arrow through Rude Guy’s heart. To run away from here as far as my feet could carry me. Pack my things and leave Hunter’s apartment. I wanted to change my name and my hair color and my wardrobe. Start over somewhere new, where nobody knew me. This guy didn’t know me. That’s why he’d said it.

He didn’t know who my father was.

Who my brother was.

He wasn’t scared of the aftermath.

How many more men I’d known had viewed me the exact same way as this guy, but never voiced it aloud because they were scared?

I stared at the jerk, knowing my face was beet red. From the corner of my eye, I could see our waiter running over with a shot of Baileys in his hand, half of its contents sloshing over the already sticky floor. He was making his way to me, I realized, my lungs deflating.

Breathe.

I couldn’t breathe.

And to make matters worse, Hunter had checked out.

“Not now, you idiot!” Hunter finally snapped, expanding like a dark cloud, suddenly soaked with his own anger. He rose in one thunderous movement, flipping the half-full plate of the guy beside him and watching as its contents fell into the man’s lap.

I shrank on the wooden bench, watching’s Hunter’s eyes narrow into two slits of fury.

“What’d you just say to me?” My roommate bared his teeth, Titan-like, tall and formidable and bigger than this place. Than this moment. It looked like he was growing bigger and bigger, like the Hulk. “Get the fuck up and repeat yourself, you useless sack of shit.”

The rude man relished the opportunity for a brawl. He stood tall, chin up, chest expanded, peacock-like.

“I said your girlfriend is ugly, and now that I see how goddamn offended you are about it, I’m thinking maybe she ain’t really your steady ride. Maybe she’s your beard. A pretty boy like you has no business being with a girl like her. If…” He raised his hand, taking a deliberate, comic pause. “…she’s the one with the pussy between you two.”

The pub’s walls rattled with laughter, the beers on the tables splattering everywhere. I clung to my tattered self-control, keeping my wobbly chin up, although a part of me wondered how I was going to stitch my self-esteem back together after this.

It wasn’t just torn; it was massacred.

“I’m going to butcher you,” Hunter’s voice was so low, it sounded like it came from an animal. The look on his face—one I’d never seen on him before—of brazen determination dipped with fury, made my bones rattle. There was a zing of insanity there. I recognized it well. My father had the same glimmer in his eyes before he went on his late-night jobs.

“Oh, yeah?” The guy placed one hand on his rounded waist.

He was pudgy, but strong. Fat and muscle corded together into a boar-shaped man. You could tell by his body language—rotten smile, palms open—that he loved to fight, did it often, and wouldn’t hesitate to break Hunter’s neck.

“’Cause it seems to me like all you’re doing is standing there, throwing empty threats my way, pretty boy.”

The pimply waiter ran to the back of the tavern, probably to get his superiors. A few people lowered their heads, possibly debating whether to break things up between the two men.

I managed to stand. I leaned toward Hunter across the table.

“Don’t bother. He’s a waste of space, oxygen, and probably porn clicks.” I tried to inject humor into my voice. “Let’s hit the road, Hunt.”

Hunter ignored me, staring pointedly at the guy as he took off his blazer meticulously. I knew he didn’t know how to fight. The self-proclaimed nobleman never had to deal with his own problems.

“He is nothing. A no one.” I tried again, reaching desperately for the sleeve of his dress shirt. Hunter jolted his hand away.

“Please, Hunter, let’s just leave.”

“Ah, she speaks. And it is a she. Ma’am, I have tits bigger than yours.” The guy cackled, exposing a row of yellow teeth and bouncing the two peaks of his chest toward Hunter. I was ready to punch the lights out of him myself. I wasn’t afraid of physical violence. My dad had taught me how to headbutt and knee people in the balls before I was out of diapers.

The atmosphere turned dark, unhinged. Rancid laughter, cheap alcohol, and the scent of adrenaline and violence rose from the crooked wooden floors. My fingers curled beside me as I got ready to attack. Rude Guy turned around, about to bow to the table behind us, full of people laughing and whistling, when Hunter grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and hurled him across the table.

The whole room sucked in a breath as the man flew across the pub. He fell back against the entrance door, head resting on his chest. For a second, I thought he’d broken his neck, but then he raised his head and started laughing, jumping to his feet with a litheness that didn’t match his size.

He raised his fists to level with his face, circling Hunter, who still radiated quiet, deadly anger.

“Come at me now, little woman,” the man hooted, sending a direct blow straight to Hunter’s face. Unprepared, Hunter sailed backwards, stumbling over the table and wobbling on his feet just in time for the guy’s second fist to connect with his nose.

“Hunter!” I bolted toward him, lungs burning. I rounded the table, prepared to jump the meaty guy. Some men stood up, but nobody wanted to get into the firing line of two-hundred-pound men’s fists. Besides, it seemed exactly like the place to let two drunk, blue-collared men brawl it out. Only Hunter wasn’t blue-collared. Or drunk. He was an Eton-educated rich boy who probably had his nails filed by a professional regularly.

One of the two elderly men who sat at the edge of our table to us clasped my arm in his hand, stopping me.

“Don’t. Your friend needs to see this one through, or he will never forgive himself. You will not be helping him by stepping into this. If anything, he would never be able to look at you again without remembering how you saved him. He has something to prove here, sweetheart.”

“But he’s losing. He’s hurt!” I shook him off. I couldn’t bear the idea of Hunter hurting because of me. I took two more steps before the other man raised a hand to stop me.

“He’ll be more hurt if you pull him outta there. I can tell you that from seventy-six years of experience. You save his skin now, you kill his ego. One has to go. Bruises heal. Pride, on the other hand…”

I looked up, watching Hunter’s bloody face as he tried to refocus on the guy he was fighting, lolling his head from side to side. He zigzagged on his feet. They were circling each other in the center of the pub. Hunter raised his fists, protecting his face, but his dress shirt was already soaked with blood and one of his eyes was turning purple. Rude Guy didn’t look much better, his lower jaw swelling, his left eye completely shut.

Rude Guy went for a second hook, but Hunter, who was starting to get the gist of street-fighting, dodged it and threw a sucker punch right in the guy’s face. The explosive sound of bone smashing bone reverberated in the air, sending an uncomfortable frisson up my spine. Rude Guy buckled, collapsing into himself like a stack of cards. He held his nose with both hands, moaning. Hunter took the opportunity to gain momentum and ran into him, tackling him to the ground with his shoulder. He straddled his opponent, raining sloppy fists on the guy’s head, ears, and chest while the latter desperately tried to protect himself with his forearms. Blood splattered on the floor, the wall, people’s shoes. Two heavy cooks and one smartly dressed man appeared from the kitchen’s doors, running toward them.

“Say anything else about this girl ever again and you’re dead, asshole. Dead!” Hunter threw his final fist to the side of the guy’s head before each cook grabbed him by a shoulder.

As they raised him from the man, his face was unrecognizable under all the blood. Hunter let them, watching with cool indifference as the man lying in a heap of blood and sweat below his feet curled into a fetal position.

I ran to him, too panicked to control myself, and patted his cheeks, neck, and forehead. It was compulsive, frantic, and completely out of character for me. I was usually big on personal space. My fingers shook violently. I took inventory of every inch of his flesh. He looked badly beat up, but not as bad as the guy still on the ground, currently begging the pub owner not to call an ambulance because he didn’t have insurance.

“Are you okay?” I whispered, realizing my voice was brittle, unsteady. I didn’t care what the idiot said about me anymore. I just wanted to know Hunter was okay.

Hunter nodded, looking away at the floor. The corner of his lip bled, and I allowed myself one last misstep, brushing the blood off with my thumb.

“Talk to me,” I croaked. “Do you want to go to the hospital?”

Hunter shook his head, still staring at the same spot by his feet, shutting the gates to himself once again, locking them up and throwing away the key.

The waiter appeared beside us, squeezing Hunter’s shoulder. “I’ll tell my manager exactly what happened. Everybody saw how he provoked you. There was nothing you could do to prevent it. I mean, he talked mad shit about your girl, man.”

“She’s not my girl,” Hunter said aloofly, gathering phlegm and spitting it—pink with the traces of blood in his mouth—onto the floor. He reached for his back pocket, took out his wallet, and tugged out a few bills, stuffing them in the young waiter’s hand.

“Don’t wash the floor. I want every asshole in this place to remember what happened today.”

I jogged after Hunter outside. He unlocked my car, sliding in and revving up the engine, ignoring my existence. I swung the passenger door open, worried he’d forgotten about me and would leave me abandoned if I didn’t hurry. A sharp, needle-like pain in my deltoid reminded me of my injured shoulder, and I winced, folding in half in my seat from the pain. I didn’t want to think about what it meant to have a shoulder injury—both for my Olympic chances and my sanity.

Hunter was still as a statue, staring at the pub with a zombie-like expression. I wished I knew what he was thinking.

Swallowing the humiliation down my throat, I tried to make light of what happened. I was full of gratitude and fear of rejection. Worst of all, I wasn’t even sure what I was offering for him to reject.

“Ironically enough, that wasn’t an Irish goodbye.” I produced two pieces of gum from the glove compartment, unwrapping the thin foil and offering him one.

He didn’t move to take it. I shoved one piece into my mouth and began to chew.

“Thanks again. I promise I’m not as pathetically incompetent in dealing with the outside world as I seem. You just always beat me to it before I have the time to kick ass.”

Now’s a good time to shut up, Sailor.

It was hard to believe I was the one babysitting him, when he was the one protecting me.

When Hunter still didn’t show any signs of life, I began to worry he was suffering from a post-traumatic disorder.

“Just tell me you’re okay.” I felt my head dropping, along with my shoulders, exhausted with humiliation. “And I’ll let you be.”

“I’ve never fought before,” he said, finally, more to himself than to me. “I’ve done my fair share of screwed-up shit over the years. I even ran after my friend, Vaughn, with a machete one time. But I never really fought, you know? Threw fists. Got hurt. Hurt back.”

He turned to meet my eyes. I looked up, gulping his attention ravenously.

I didn’t know how it was possible, but he looked even more gorgeous with cuts and bruises. Like a brand new car sporting its very first scratch that transforms it from just another car to your car—with history, shared memories, and baggage.

In that moment, I wished I’d never laid eyes upon Hunter Fitzpatrick, because I knew with certainty that for all his spoiled ways, corrupted behavior, and obsession with pleasure, he was innately good, loyal, and courageous.

Those things made him very dangerous to me.

Dangerously attractive.

“Not that I encourage any type of violence, but this guy’s going to remember your face for a long time while he’s waiting for his to heal,” I told him. “So congrats on popping your cherry—and his nose—with success.”

More silence ensued. My stomach growled, reminding me it hadn’t been fed in over seven hours, and I gave it a firm squeeze, trying to shush it.

Hunter shook his head, finally pulling out of the makeshift driveway.

“You hungry?”

“I could eat,” I said noncommittally.

He laughed, then stopped when his lip reopened.

“You know, I remembered this place more fondly. It kind of sucks. Let’s McBinge on artery-clogging burgers while our metabolism can still take it.”

“Thank God. The meat there looked fishy,” I groaned.

“I have a perfectly good piece of meat between my thighs, if you’re interested.”

He was his usual, gross self again. I was actually happy for the crass comment.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Your loss.”

“And every other girl in America’s gain,” I quipped.

“Not for the next five months, thanks to your ass.”

Five months.

How had it been a month already?

It hadn’t. It had only been two weeks. But Hunter was desperate to get out of this arrangement as soon as possible. I rested my head against my headrest, the pain from my shoulder and adrenaline pumping in my veins making me sleepy. I closed my eyes just for a second, but found it difficult to reopen them as Hunter started driving, slashing through the night like a knife on our way back to Boston.

Maybe that’s why he said what he said. He thought I was asleep, not just resting.

“Agnes,” he whispered. “The nanny’s name was Agnes.”