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She’d done so much for him—gave herself so freely and so sweetly—that he wanted to do something for her. But what? He was already giving her money through the book contract, and just handing a woman thousands of dollars after sleeping with her felt rather . . . crass. But money was the only thing he knew, other than property.
Property. Hunter debated it for a moment, then shook his head and kept running. Most of the properties acquired by the Buchanan family were extremely expensive investment properties. He doubted Gretchen would know what to do if he handed her a twenty-million-dollar flat in Manhattan or a shopping mall in Poughkeepsie. And she might panic at the amount of money. He didn’t give a shit, but he suspected something like that might be alarming to a regular sort of person.
More roses? He gave her roses every day, though. It was part of their little ritual. He needed something that only he could give her. Something that would show her that he knew how she thought and what she would appreciate.
Something thoughtful.
Something that told her he loved her.
Because he was pretty sure he did. It was too soon to tell, and there was too much adrenaline rushing through his veins after sex to know that it wasn’t just post-coitus giddiness.
But Gretchen was perfect for him. He wanted to show her that he was perfect for her, too. There had to be something.
Hunter continued running. He’d come up with something eventually.
***
Gretchen hadn’t heard from Hunter all day. His schedule had been full of meetings, and despite her longing to spend time with him—which was ridiculous, really—he had to work, and she did, too.
Her morning rose had unfurled in its vase by dinnertime, and she leaned in and touched a velvety petal. Her work had been going slow, her thoughts distracted. Every single sexual act described in Victorian euphemism in the letters made her pulse race and her imagination automatically insert Hunter into her mental images.
It made working at a brisk pace near impossible. She had tight deadlines, so she couldn’t afford the distraction, and yet . . .
A knock at the door made Gretchen jump. “Come in.”
She turned just in time to see Hunter, and a smile curved her face. The smile disappeared a little when she caught sight of the somber suit he was dressed in as well as the bodyguard out in the hall. “Going out?”
“I have a . . . meeting.” He grimaced, the lines of his scars stark on his face. “I don’t know what time I’ll be back.”
“Oh. Well, that’s disappointing.” She gave him a playful mock-pout. “I guess I won’t stay up and wait for you, then.”
“Actually,” Hunter said, moving into the room. He stood before her and lightly brushed the back of his hand over her cheek. “If you want to wait in my bed for me, I’d be happy to wake you up when I return.”
“Mmmm.” She leaned into his hand, and then lightly bit at the pad of his thumb. “We’ll see.”
Oh, who was she kidding? She’d totally be there.
Hunter’s gaze seemed to brighten, though he didn’t quite crack a smile. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Actually,” Gretchen began. “I wanted to talk to you about having a small get-together of some kind. My agent is really pushing for a small house party here, since it’d give me a good chance to spend time with my editor and tie in the project with the house.” She winced at his expressionless face. “Feel free to tell me no. I know this is your house.”
After a long moment, his finger brushed over her cheek again. “Would this please you?”
“Not if it makes you uncomfortable,” she told him truthfully. “But it’d get my agent and my editor off my back for a while, which would be nice. I figured you could invite your friends, though. Maybe that’d make things less painful.”
“I . . . am not good with strangers,” he admitted.
“Is it because of your face?” When his cheeks began to flush red, she shook her head. “You don’t have anything to be uncomfortable about. I find your scars incredibly sexy.”
He gave h
er a scathing look. “My scars are not attractive, Gretchen.”
“On anyone else they wouldn’t be,” she agreed, getting to her feet and wrapping her arms around his neck. She leaned in and traced her tongue along the jagged line that distorted the shape of his mouth. “But on you, they arouse me.”
His hand slid to her ass and he gripped it tightly, then groaned low enough that only she could hear. “I can’t miss this meeting, Gretchen. But you’re making me want to leave early. If you want to have this party, it’s fine with me.”
“Are you sure?”
