Page 51 of Only the Hunter

I meet his eyes—a foggy blue that nearly matches today’s skyline.

“I dragged you here. I’m not making you sleep on a couch too.”

“I’ll take the sofa. I promise you, I’ve slept in far more uncomfortable places than a suite in the Four Seasons.”

My brow furrows. “Are you sure?” Because I’m not.

“Evie, this is the nicest hotel room I’ve ever been in in my life. I promise; you can close the bedroom door and you can trust me. I’ll behave.”

“Well, of course you’ll behave. I’m not saying you won’t.”

I’m not sure how to read his expression, but he steps past me to the desk and picks up a leather-bound folder. “I’m starving. Should we order?”

“It’s midafternoon.”

“You don’t want anything?”

Outside the daylight is fading, and if we eat now, my internal clock will register it as evening and nightfall, which isn’t the worst way to adjust to the new time zone.

“No, actually I do.” For some reason, it feels like I’m giving him something, but I’m not, at all. If anything, I’m giving me something—food.

After we order, I shower quickly and change into a silk pajama pants set and fuzzy socks—comfortable and acceptable in the presence of company. When I return to the living room, Gabe’s on the sofa with a book.

“Shower’s yours if you want it.”

“I’ll wait.” His gaze scans from my face to my feet and back up again. The set is modest—long sleeves, pants that brush the floor—but the way his gaze tracks my body makes me acutely aware I’m not wearing a bra. As if reading my mind, his gaze returns, just for a second, to where the silk drapes across my chest. My skin prickles, like the silk is suddenly too thin beneath his laser-like gaze. He refocuses on the French doors.

I reach for a throw that’s on the back of the sofa and pull it over my lap.

“What’re you reading?”

“A book on Geneva. Was on the shelf back there.”

“Ah. Planning on sightseeing?”

“No. Studying the maps.”

Right. That makes sense.

“Do you remember the Irish girl? The one who went missing? You were thirteen, maybe fourteen–”

“I remember her. Why?” Amy Fitzpatrick. Fifteen years old, vanished on New Year’s while walking home in Spain. I followed every theory, every dead-end lead.

“You were on the computer constantly. Researching. And when your brother asked you why you were so obsessed, you asked him a question: If no one looks, if no one searches, does that mean no one cares?”

The way he retells the story, I do sound rather obsessive. She was a stranger in a different country. “You remembered that?”

“I’ve wondered if that’s why you chose this field. You told me once you didn’t want a big life—you wanted one where you made a difference. Was she the reason?”

Amy Fitzpatrick. I haven’t heard her name in ages. It’s possible. I became a missing persons aficionado, following theories. The idea that some of these people ripped from loved ones are still out there, without options, or a way to get home; it’s never sat right. I shrug. “I suppose.”

I’m surprised he remembers as much as he does. But I also remember—his father was gone a lot, even before he died. CIA meant long stretches away, and I think that’s part of why Gabe was always at our house.

“Is your father the reason you chose your path?” I’d never had the nerve to ask him before. I’m not sure why. Maybe because when he announced his plan to join the Army, Scott had so much to say I couldn’t get a word in edge-wise.

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. He kicks off his shoes and sets his feet up on the coffee table.

“I remember your dad. I liked him.”