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“Well, for starters, you can trust me,” Gretchen snapped.
His jaw flexed, as if he were trying hard to keep his temper in check. He said nothing.
“You really think I’m sleeping with you because you’re rich?” She was incredulous.
“I’m trying to think of another reason why you would,” Hunter said, his voice crisp. “After all, it is acknowledged that I’m quite ugly. And looking back, you came on to me. So yes, it’s looking rather suspicious in my mind.”
“Your feelings are hurt,” she said, shaking her head. “And you’re taking it out on me.”
He shook his head. “You’re not the person I thought you were. That much is clear.”
“And who did you think I was? I’ve never lied about my family or my finances. You never asked. Why do you think I work all the time at a job that makes me miserable?” She snorted. “It’s not my stunning work ethic.”
He said nothing.
“And for the record, I came on to you because I wanted you. Because I was drawn to you. You seemed lonely and ached to have someone touch you. And I guess I’m stupid, because I wanted to touch you and rock your world. I guess that was a bad call on my part.”
“I guess it was.”
She bit her lip, thinking. This conversation was going nowhere. Worse, it was making her confused. She’d come in here to apologize to him for her sister’s behavior, and now she was having to apologize for her own? For the grave crime of falling for a man who didn’t trust her? It was laughable.
No, it was heartbreaking.
Gretchen crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m sorry if my friends hurt your feelings—”
“They didn’t hurt my feelings. They simply showed me the truth of who you are. I should have known you were too good to be true. All those words you said, just words.”
She flinched again. “What words?”
“Your talk of not caring what a man looked like as long as he made you happy. It turns out that you don’t care what a man looks like as long as he has a full wallet.”
“That’s a lie and you know it. And what are you talking about? When did I ever say anything about men and their looks?” Where on earth was this coming from? She couldn’t recall having a conversation with him where they discussed what she looked for in a man. Strange.
“Ask Brontë. Remember? You told her that rich men thought they were the heroes of the fairy tale but they were truly the villains.”
Huh? She stared at him, trying to piece together the whirlwind of accusations. The last long conversation she’d had with Brontë was when they were picking up books on Audrey’s request. They’d talked about men then, but they’d been alone in the empty house. Unless . . .
“You were spying on me,” she said
slowly. “That day at the house.”
He gave her a cutting look and turned away, but not before she saw the hint of red rising in his cheeks.
“It’s true, isn’t it? You saw me that day. How? And what does that have to do with anything?”
He was silent.
Her mind raced. She vaguely recalled her conversation with Brontë in the empty house, but only because she’d tried to give her friend relationship advice. Not that she was a great expert on relationships herself. “I don’t understand what that has to do with anything. We didn’t know each other then. I didn’t meet you until I moved into this house.”
This house.
Something clicked. Her publishing contract specified that she had to live in the house that Hunter Buchanan owned. Hunter, who’d been spying on her before she knew he existed. She gasped. “And you own a new publisher that contacted my agent out of the blue and offered a big paycheck as long as I lived on location. At your house. You set this all up, didn’t you?”
He stared at her, silent, his jaw clenched. But he wasn’t denying it.
Suddenly, things clicked into place. The weird contract. The editor’s odd comments. The fact that Hunter didn’t seem to know a thing about what kind of books she wrote. Eldon’s dismissive dislike of her. Her mysterious bestsellerdom.
She gasped again. “I didn’t become a bestseller, did I? Not really? Did you buy all those books?”
