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“Nothing. I’m just The English Cutie,” I say drily.

“Hunter, what the hell?” Nate asks, lips twisting. “Why are you acting like this?”

That’s an excellent question. I wish I knew the answer. “No reason,” I say.

I’m such a dick right now. I need to cut it out.

Nate stops, backs up against a brick building. I stop too. He blows out a breath. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Tonight? No.

This weekend? No.

Next week? No too.

That’s part of the problem.

“No…I just,” I start to make my point, but I’m picturing arguments I’ve never won. Protests I’ve tried to make. All futile.

“Hunter,” Nate says with genuine concern. “You’re freaking me out. Tell me what I did.”

Ugh. What is wrong with me? I don’t want to pick a fight. I spent enough time fighting with my father, until I learned it was pointless. Chin up. Ignore the lies. “Nothing, I swear,” I say, trying to sound believable. Trying to reassure him.

But Nate tries harder, reaches gently for me, setting a hand on my chest. “Tell me,” he implores, and fear flickers in his blue eyes. Fear of heartache. But even if it hurts, he’s asking what’s wrong.

My stupid heart softens. He’s not fighting me. He’s trying to fix this.

I swallow roughly, trying to sort out my emotions. “It’s just…well, your mates were with us in Vegas on Friday, and I had such a great time with everyone, and they knew the score. And you wanted to meet my friends, and we were having such a great time, and I thought maybe we’d tell them too.”

“Shit. I didn’t think of that,” he says with regret.

“It sounds stupid now that I say it. Really stupid. Who cares,” I say with a shrug, feeling so foolish.

“I care,” he says, curling that big hand over my shoulder. “I was just reacting. I didn’t want to tell the truth in case you didn’t want me to. But I should have told them what was going on.”

That’s the issue—what is going on with us? I’m dying to know. But I don’t want to ask. I’m too terrified his answer will diverge from mine. Instead, I let him into my world a little more. I might not have the guts to tell him I think he’s incredible, but I can at least tell him who I am. “My father had affairs constantly. He cheated on all his wives. He enlisted Harlow and me in his lying. He’d ask us to answer a call from his wife at the time, tell her he was out, take a message. Anything. And I’ve hated it ever since. And when I didn’t want to, he’d say, Someday when you’re older you’ll understand how the world works. And he didn’t like it when I didn’t go along with things. So then he switched to a new tactic and told me I wasn’t trying hard enough in uni or later in my job.” I shove a hand through my hair, despising the onslaught of memories of manipulation. “And I just don’t want to be like him,” I finish before I embarrass myself more by spitting up all my Daddy issues.

“I’m sorry, Hunter,” Nate says gently, the busy streets of London the backdrop to our fight. “I should have told them the truth. They’re your friends.”

I can’t stop. “What’s the truth?” I ask, hating how desperate I sound. But wanting the answer more.

He curls his hand around the back of my head. “I like you so much. So fucking much,” he says, and then he brushes his lips against mine. “Don’t be mad at me. Please.”

My defenses melt. “I’m not anymore. I can’t be mad at you,” I say. It’s not possible when he’s like this—a gentle giant. “I’m sorry I was pissy. I acted like a twat.”

He smiles tenderly, shaking his head. “We’re good. And you can tell your friends. I trust you. You know that, right?” He’s never let himself be so vulnerable with me. I’m floored by the magnitude of that admission. Trust is ruthlessly hard for him.

“I do know that,” I say. Then my lips curve in a grin. “Can we go have make-up sex please? I think it’s going to be really fucking stellar.”

He laughs. “All our sex is stellar.”

“Yes, it is,” I say, then I glance up the street. “I live two streets away.”

“Walk fast.”

But Nate’s not speedy when I let him into my place. He walks slowly as if memorizing every detail of the small studio. There’s a futon in the corner, a kettle on the stove, and some board and card games on the coffee table along with a few photo books.

He pauses at the window, cracked slightly to let in cool air, and glances at the cacti that line the windowsill.

“You have plants,” he says.

“Well, it’s hard to kill a cactus when I travel,” I say.

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