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If I told myself that enough times, I might believe it. In the end, it was a choice. Hunter had made a choice to come back, and to get dirty when he did.
Whatever his reasons, I knew Hunter was dirty now. He was in deep. How would that have changed him in the intervening years since that one night we were together—the last night I considered myself his friend?
I paced the apartment, walking from one room to the next, examining things, trying to get a sense of who Hunter was and who he'd become over the past five years. Everything in the place seemed picked out by a designer.
The decorations and furniture were nice but none of it seemed personal. His clothes were all neatly hung and folded in his huge walk-in closet. His kitchen was perfectly stocked, and all the dishes were done and neatly stacked in the cupboards.
Hundreds of books filled the shelves in the library, where his desk sat in front of a ceiling-to-floor window overlooking the bay. None of them looked like they'd been read. His desk was immaculate, but empty.
There was nothing there that said "Hunter." Pens and paperclips, blank paper, steno pads, thumbtacks—all of it neat, like some housekeeper had been there and straightened everything out.
The faint scent of a masculine cologne permeated the apartment—not strong, just enough to make me think of him.
There were no family photos, nothing personal.
This wasn't his home. Not his real home. It was an apartment, complete with everything he'd need, but I had the sense he didn’t really live here.
When the front doorknob turned, I practically jumped out of my skin from nerves.
Hunter had arrived.
He entered the apartment and right away, I could see that he'd been in a fight. His cheek was bloody and his hands were, too, his knuckles red and bleeding.
"Can you help me with this?" he asked, trying to shrug off his jacket. I went over to where he stood beside the front closet and helped him remove his jacket, gingerly slipping it off each hand.
"What happened?" I asked, frowning as I hung up his jacket in the front closet. "You were in a fight."
"Good deduction," Hunter said, deadpan. "Can you do a bit of nursing for me? There's a first aid kit in the main bathroom under the sink."
"Sure," I said, surprised at the turn of events. Hunter had been in a fight before coming to the apartment to hate fuck me?
I was surprised but said nothing, attributing it to his new lifestyle of heading a family with mafia ties. I retrieved the first aid kit from the well-appointed bathroom, which was all done up with white marble and brass fixtures, the towels thick and plush, beautiful photographs of the ocean on the walls. I took the kit back to the kitchen where Hunter sat at the island on a stool, trying to unbutton his cuffs.
"Can you?" he asked, holding out one bloodied hand.
I put the first aid kit down on the granite countertop and took his hand in mine, unbuttoning the cuff as he asked. Then, he gave me his other hand, all the time watching me intently. I felt his gaze on me, and I wondered whether he was already thinking of how he wanted me. On my knees, like I'd been when I begged for his help? On the bed? On the floor?
I had no idea but even trying to imagine where and how aroused me, in spite of myself.
"Help me with this?" he asked and pointed to the front of his shirt. I nodded and began to unbutton it. He was still looking at me intently. "I see you went all out with your clothes and makeup trying to impress me," he said, his voice flat.
"I—I…" I stuttered, "I didn’t know what to expect."
He said nothing, but I felt his gaze on my face while I finished unbuttoning his shirt. Was he going to have me undress him completely?
I pulled it gently over each hand, revealing his torso in all its naked glory.
And it was glorious. While he'd been a mafia thug for a year since returning from Virginia, he'd also apparently kept in top shape, with bulging biceps and a washboard abdomen. Once more, I noticed his tribal tattoo and remembered running my hands all over it that night we were together.
I saw a bruise on his rib, and another on his other side along with a huge abrasion.
"Why were you fighting? I thought you were a finance and management type, not some kind of enforcer."
"I'm a man of many talents, Celia," he said and bit his bottom lip.
It made me want to kiss his mouth, so I glanced away.
"Who did this to you?" I asked, unable to stop myself.
