but I know now’s not the time. I want to keep it light right now. I briefly meet his gaze. “When’s your next tournament?”
“Supposed to be in two weeks.”
“Do you split your time pretty evenly between here and your vineyard?” I ask as I dab some antibacterial cream on his cuts.
He shakes his head. “I prefer the vineyard. When I can be there.”
Which I hope is a lot. I’m practically gleeful when I think of him being so close.
I wrap his hand in gauze and then glance up and find him looking at me through his long, dark lashes. His face is so handsome, it’s hard to think about anything else. I take a deep breath as I tie off the gauze. “I was wondering...how do you think Sarabelle ended up with your cufflink?”
He locks his jaw. “Do you really want to hear this?”
Now dabbing cream atop his other hand, I nod. “Not only do I think you would never do something like this, but you didn’t sound guilty on the phone, and no one at Love Inc. thinks you are. Those three things are good enough for me.”
He rubs a hand back through his hair as I start wrapping his hand in gauze. “I don’t want to drag you into this.”
“Is it because you don’t trust me?” I ask, tying off the gauze.
“No. It’s because I’m worried for you.” He doesn’t meet my eyes as he gets up, grabbing an undershirt off a shelf and pulling it over his head. His face is a blank slate as he reaches for my hand. I give it to him, and he leads me into the bedroom I’ve been using.
He blinks, looking like he’s coming out of a daze. “Let me help you pack. There’s too much going on right now. I don’t know who might show up here.”
He surprises me by pressing a tender kiss on my temple. “Libby, I can’t stand to worry about you.”
“I’ll go tomorrow if you still think I should. But for tonight let’s just talk, or...I don’t know. Watch movies or something.”
He gives me a skeptical look. “Watch movies?”
“I bet you have a hell of a home studio somewhere in here.”
“And if the FBI shows up and takes me off in handcuffs?”
“I’ll post your bail.” I smirk a little. “I have the money.”
I start to fold and organize my clothes, which are laid out by outfit all over the room, and Hunter leans against the bed. It’s a little awkward, but also kind of companionable. “I’m surprised you went to a brothel for sex,” I say after a few minutes.
“Are you?” He smiles a little ruefully.
“You could get it on your own.”
“True. But I’m emotionally detached. Women don’t like that.”
“Do you really think so?” I don’t see him that way.
He shrugs. “I’m not saying it’s not alluring to some. But eventually most people want more.”
“That’s not what I meant. Why do you say you’re detached?”
He shrugs. “Nurture shaping nature.” One eyebrow lifts when he sees my face. “You look surprised.”
“I am,” I say, tucking the last of my outfits into the suitcase. “You just don’t strike me that way.”
He presses his lips together, then says, “I don’t act that way with you.”
And he doesn’t—which is the only thing that gives me hope when I think about how this thing between us might work out.
“I’m glad you don’t.”
He holds his hand out for mine again, and I can’t help smiling as I take it. I decide not to ask him where we’re going as we walk toward the end of the hall. He pushes the elevator button, and we take it to the third floor, where we follow a long, beige rug past closed doors Hunter doesn’t bother to explain. One of them is cracked, and I can see some hunting gear. I’m wondering what’s in the rest of them, still wondering at what his dad said—about Rita, who was apparently his stepmother—when Hunter stops walking and I realize we’ve reached the end of the hall.
“The movie room,” he tells me simply.
He pushes through the door and leads me into a vast space lit with in-ceiling globe lights. Arranged on two sides of a long, red-carpeted aisle are dozens of rows of comfortable-looking leather recliners, facing a screen that rivals any theater I’ve visited.
Hunter drops my arm and points to a row of dark wood cabinets lining the right wall. “You pick something. I need to call Marchant, okay?”