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She throws up her hands. "What do you want, anyway? Why can’t you leave me alone?"
"A question I’m asking myself." Hunter’s features take on a look of surprise which seems genuine. Maybe she senses it, too, because Zara seems to force herself to relax.
"I’m tired, Hunter."
"So am I—of fighting." He searches her features. "Why do you hate me?"
"It’s not you; I hate the concept of you."
He blinks. "Excuse me?”
"You belong to the kind of entitled, snobbish, rich pricks who think the world owes them."
"So you’re the kind who believes the meek shall inherit the world, and all that?" He smirks.
And just like that, Zara snaps her shoulders back again. "I should have known it was pointless to engage in any conversation with you. Now, let me pass or I’m going to knee you in the balls, and I promise, that’s going to hurt."
Hunter takes a step back. His movement is so quick, so lithe, it’s almost like a dance step. He holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Sorry, I apologize. That was unwarranted. At least, let me take you out to dinner so we can discuss this further."
She snorts. "As if I’m going to waste my time with a person like you."
His eyes gleam. "Why? Are you scared you’ll find that you actually like me?"
She laughs. A peal of sound that seems to entrance him.
"That’ll be the day," she scoffs.
"Then you won’t have a problem giving me two hours of your time this evening?"
There seems to be a face-off between the two, but something she sees on his face must convince her, for she nods. "You have one hundred and twenty minutes." With what looks like a magical twist of her wrist, she pulls out her phone from her bag. "Your clock starts now."
Hunter’s gaze narrows. He peels back his lips, and for a second, a wolfish expression crosses his features. By the time Zara looks up at him, it’s gone. Once more, he seems contrite. He steps back and gestures to her to precede him. "After you, let’s see who wins this round."
To find out what happens next read Hunter and Zara’s story in the Christmas one night stand HERE
Read an excerpt
Zara
"No."
"What do you mean, no?" The man sitting next to me in the driver's seat of his car, the man who represents so much of what I hate on every level, glares at me.
"Exactly that," I glance out my window. And why did I agree to him taking me out to dinner? Why couldn’t I have turned him down? Why did I rise to his challenge when he asked earlier if I was scared I’d find him attractive? I’ll never find him appealing—not even if he were the last man on this planet. And especially not when he stands for everything I hate.
Hunter Whittington is the very embodiment of entitlement. He comes from old world money, and has been groomed to take his place as the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. He belongs to that class of Oxbridge educated, elitist, stuck-up, pain-in-the arse, wankers who thinks it's their right to rule and dominate. A grumphole who’s highly popular with the old-boys-network, perceived as cunning, ruthless and lethal while also appearing to not give a damn about anything. Well, except for being very insistent I attend this dinner with him.
"I thought we were agreeing to a truce for this evening?" Mr. posh-tosh drawls.
I toss my hair over myself shoulder, "I agreed to have dinner with you; doesn’t mean I’m going to be all docile and pleasant."
"Pity, because when you smile, you’re actually quite charming."
I scoff. "That the best you can do? Also, your compliments leave me cold."
"When I compliment you, you’ll know it." He drawls, "That was simply me stating a fact."
"And this is me stating that I’m already regretting being here with you."
