Total pages in book: 33
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 30528 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 153(@200wpm)___ 122(@250wpm)___ 102(@300wpm)
“The Hartmann Group. I’m a secretary there. It isn’t glamorous, but it pays the bills.” I try not to sound defensive, but maybe I do, because he gives me a quick side-eye like he’s reevaluating his entire mental file on me.
He gives another one of his grunts that I don’t completely understand.
We reach the front doors, and the humid blast from outside makes me instantly sticky. I pause, wondering if I should say goodbye, but he beats me to it.
“Have a good day, Iris.”
He says my name. First time. It’s the softest thing I’ve heard all week, and for some reason, it lands right in my chest and just stays there, humming.
I muster up a smile and respond, “You too, Hunter,” and somehow, keep my knees from buckling as I walk away.
The rest of my morning is a blur of meetings, phone calls, and getting coffee stains out of my skirt, but the only thing I can really think about is the way Hunter looked in that red shirt, and the way his hand felt on my arm, and the way he said my name. And the way his voice sent shivers down my spine.
It’s possible I’m losing my mind. Or maybe just my heart, one accidental hallway collision at a time.
I’ve been trying to cut back on caffeine, but after three consecutive nights spent tossing and turning with my brain replaying every Hunter encounter on an endless loop, it’s become clear that this is a battle I won’t win. I surrender to the inevitable and join the morning crowd at Gobble Me Up, the building’s coffee shop that doubles as Worthington Hills’ unofficial gossip hub.
The queue is six deep, filled with a who’s-who of The One’s most annoying early risers. I wedge myself into line, trying not to yawn or make accidental eye contact with anyone who might mistake me for a “morning person.”
I’m debating whether or not to add a donut to my usual caramel macchiato when a ripple of awareness passes through me. I glance over my shoulder and, sure enough, Hunter has entered the coffee shop.
He’s not even in uniform, just jeans and a navy crewneck that fits him like it was custom-tailored just for him. He carries himself with that same deliberate, economy-of-movement grace, but there’s something looser about him today. He looks around the room and locks eyes with me, just long enough to send a bolt of nervous heat through my stomach.
He joins the queue behind me. For one full minute, nothing happens. He doesn’t say my name. Doesn’t say anything, in fact. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, close enough that I can feel the gravity of him. Should I turn and acknowledge him? Say hello?
When the line advances, he closes the gap, and I get a whiff of his aftershave—something woodsy, sharp, but clean. I try to focus on the menu again, but all the drink names blur together into a single block of nonsense.
The barista, Cydney, leans over the counter and gives me a look. “Ready for the usual, Iris?”
I nod, flustered. “Yeah, large caramel macchiato, extra whip. Thank you.”
Hunter, behind me, says, “And a black coffee, and a chocolate croissant.”
Cydney eyes us both with open curiosity. “Is this together?” she asks, and before I can say anything, Hunter says, “Yeah,” and hands over a twenty.
I reach for my wallet out of habit. “You don’t have to—” I start, but he shakes his head once, almost imperceptible. The message hangs between us without a word. He won't budge on this.
I let him pay. It feels weirdly intimate, and my whole body prickles with nervous energy.
We step aside to the pickup counter, where there’s even less personal space to pretend we’re not practically touching. I try to make myself small, but it’s pointless.
The silence between us is full of things neither of us is willing to say, so I break it first. “You a regular here, too?”
He glances down, almost shy. “I usually make my coffee at home, but I ran out and haven’t gotten my grocery order yet.”
Our drinks come up together. The barista sets mine down with a swirl of caramel and a mountain of whipped cream, then hands Hunter his black coffee and the croissant, already bagged.
He slides my macchiato toward me, careful not to spill. “Enjoy your coffee,” he tells me, voice pitched low.
I wrap my hands around the cup, feeling my face flush. “Thank you.” It seems like I’m always thanking him for something.
Hunter seems less guarded than usual, like the edge has worn off his usual prickliness. He glances at his watch, then at me. “You headed to work?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Trying not to be late for a change.”
He lifts his coffee in a half-salute. “See you around.”
I watch him walk away, every muscle in his back defined and purposeful. He stops at the door, turns, and gives me a real smile. Not much, just a tilt at the corner of his mouth, but it’s enough to make my insides do a victory lap.