In Strange Woods - Claire Cray Page 0,17

few loops and went back to lay it in the truck bed, acutely conscious of James at his side. Turning to face him, he hung an arm on the side of the truck. “You in town a while?”

“I’m not sure.” James ran a hand through his thick hair, looking back to the car. That bright light in his eyes started to dim, gloom drifting back in. “Maybe.”

Maybe. So, maybe not? Maybe this was it? A chance encounter, one and done, the end? The thought made something screech in Hunter’s mind, like a machinery malfunction.

“Gimme your number,” he said suddenly, and at James’s startled blink, he scrambled for something to add that would make it sound less commanding and weird. But then a very nice little smile appeared on James’s face, so Hunter just took out his phone and took down the number.

“You can find me at the Sea Witch in Brooks, too. I’m staying there.” James paused, studying him with those stormy eyes. “Well, I guess you know that, right?”

Hunter nodded with a slight smile. “I’ll see you around, then.”

“Thanks again.” James held out his hand.

A handshake seemed formal for the circumstances—until James’s cool grip held tightly for a moment longer than necessary, and Hunter saw a hint of pink appear on those ridiculously sharp cheekbones before their fingers slipped apart.

“Anytime,” Hunter said, blinking in surprise, his palm tingling.

James bit his lip and put his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders rising to his ears before squaring off. He really did cut a mesmerizing figure, all sharp lines and slouched elegance and sensitive, moody masculinity. Like James Dean, Hunter thought. Quietly cool on the surface, roiling with emotion underneath. Hunter watched him walk away and felt a hunger waking up deep inside, like a beast stirred from a long slumber.

Christ. It was like a meteor had struck.

Chapter 7: Search

Something stirred in James’s chest when he saw Hunter’s black truck disappear in his rearview mirror, and he shook his head, unsure of what had just happened. It was like he’d just woken up from an incredibly vivid and convincing dream.

Weird. Maybe romantic delusions were some lesser-known, B-side symptom of grief. That must have been it, because James didn’t get swept off his feet. Didn’t even get crushes, and certainly not on guys as genuinely nice and appealing as Hunter. Casual hookups were all he’d ever cared for—which was why he generally stuck to cool, cynical city creatures with zero emotional availability. Isaacs, basically. Sexy, shallow fun.

Robin, a classic romantic, had always bemoaned his lack of interest in dating. But what was the point? Honestly, even James’s friendships were somewhat casual.

Not that he was antisocial. Not at all. People were interesting to him, generally. There were plenty he was fond of in New York, from the artists in Grace’s orbit to the journalists and creatives he met through photography. It was just that he never felt attached—not to any person, not to any place. Something was always missing, or it just didn’t stick. It had been that way for as long as he could remember.

For whatever reason, he’d always felt like he was just passing through. Even in his own city. Especially in his own city, sometimes.

The only exception was family. Grace, Bryce, Robin—he was attached to them, at least. They were his home. And now that they were gone, all he had left was that old sense that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be—like he’d been dropped into the wrong life by accident.

Maybe he should have been dropped into a trailer by the river. Jesus, but it had been nice, hadn’t it?

After a shower at the Sea Witch and another breakfast at the diner, James took a walk around Brooks. Between the salty air, the cries of gulls, and the rickety romance of the waterfronts, the place was actually pretty appealing. He made a stop at the town’s tiny museum, thinking he might find clues about Woodstock, but it was mostly filled with artifacts and photos from the glory days of the timber industry. A sprinkle of information about the region’s indigenous people was overshadowed by countless black and white photos of loggers crowded around felled trees. In one picture, ten loggers sat side by side in a wedge-shaped cut sawed out of a massive cedar. James could almost hear the thunderous, splintering crash that giant must have made when it fell. The thought filled him with a strangely intimate sort of woe.

On his way