“There’s always next time. Besides, I get to go home with the girl.”
He kisses my head as we walk out the door.
Chapter Thirteen
I open the door of my apartment and guide Hunter toward the couch. He has his arm slung over my shoulders like he needs the support. Really, I think he just likes the attention … and the occasional boob graze.
We remove his shoe and sock and get his foot propped up to get a better look.
“It’s a little swollen,” I say after examining it closer. “Let me get you some ice.”
I reach for a bag of frozen peas from my freezer and head back with the bag and a paper towel to put on his foot.
He repositions himself on the couch, settling in comfortably. I place the towel and bag on his ankle.
“I have Tylenol for the pain,” I say.
Before I turn toward the kitchen, he reaches up and takes my hand, stopping me in my tracks. He pulls me down to him and crashes his lips on mine.
The kiss is brief but meaningful, taking my breath away.
“Thank you for taking care of me like this,” he says as he plays with the end of my ponytail.
“Of course I’d take care of you. You’re hurt. Do you mean to tell me the throngs of women who throw themselves at your feet haven’t coddled you before?”
He laughs, and then his face relaxes, looking almost sentimental. “Not with a bag of peas.”
“I’m hap-pea to help,” I joke, not feeling the least bit silly for my pun.
“You’re cute, kid.” His use of the nickname he always calls me makes me gnaw on my lip. He raises a thumb and pulls it from between my teeth. “What did I say that worries you?”
It’s silly really. The endearing term of kid is something I’ve gotten used to. Except that was before we slept together. Now, I feel like I’ve been demoted.
With a shake of my head, I play it off. “Nothing. It’s just—”
He kisses me again, and this time, it’s not brief. It’s firm and long, and it comes with a hand grab of my hair that’s not rough or possessive yet sexy as hell.
I sigh into his embrace. “Why do you call me kid?”
“I already told you. It’s a Casablanca thing.”
“Are you going to make me watch the movie in order to understand?”
He grins. “Maybe someday. Just know, it has nothing to do with your age or the fact that you’re so adorable that it’s beyond sexy.”
“Sexy is cute.”
“If you were a vegetable, you’d be a cute-cumber.”
I almost fall onto my knees in surprise. “Hunter Johnstone! Did you just make a pun?”
His gorgeous grin brings his dimples out, and the tiny laugh lines around his eyes appear. “You’re rubbing off on me.”
I lean down and kiss him. “It’s my pleasure.” The words are an innuendo, but he’s hurt; we might be kissing, but I’m not sure exactly what will come next for us. I stand up and take a breath. “Now, what sounds good to eat?”
“Word on the street is, you make a raspberry cheesecake that’s better than sex.”
He waggles his eyebrows, and I have to laugh.
“You’re in luck.”
I walk into the kitchen while Hunter sits up and looks around my place. It’s not very big, but it’s sweet. Sofia and I have cream-colored walls with a light blue sofa and the peach carpet the place came with. The couch is pushed over to accommodate the tree in the corner.
“You get a real tree,” he states, looking at the four-foot pine that is way too big for the room.
“I love the smell. The superintendent of the building almost killed us because we dropped a thousand needles, trying to carry it up here by ourselves. I’ll bake something extra for him. He likes my oatmeal raisin cookies.”
“You bake a lot?”
“Yes,” I say as I open my refrigerator and see the cheesecake I made after Hunter dropped me off at home yesterday. “It helps soothe my nerves. I tend to overthink a lot, and baking is my Zen.”
I hold the cheesecake up for him to see, and he raises a brow.
“You made that last night?”
I nod my head and then realize I just gave away a lot of myself in this one dessert. Yes, Hunter, I baked because I’m crazy about you, and I’m not sure what that means.
He doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he rises from the couch and starts looking around my apartment. He takes in the Santa throw pillows and then smiles when he sees the snow globe he bought me resting on the table near the couch.
I put the cheesecake on the counter and watch him. I feel so comfortable with him here; it’s like he’s been here a thousand times before.
I don’t normally invite people into my personal space because it’s just that—personal. You can learn a lot about a person just from seeing how they live. Is their place clean or dirty? Are there family photos or meaningless prints on the walls? What kind of food do they eat? In my apartment, there’s no hiding things in closets or behind closed doors.
“What’s with all the castles?” he asks when he sees the art gallery on the wall.
From Mont-Saint-Michel in Normandy, France, to the Neuschwanstein Castle in southwest Bavaria, Germany, I have pictures of the most famous castles in the world, hung up in a beautiful display.
“My dad used to read me fairy tales when I was a child. Most parents were telling their daughters they could be doctors or lawyers or the next president of the United States. He was firm on me having a fantasy. A little magic in my life, if you will. When I got older and became interested in the world around me, we started a yearly trip. Just the two of us. Every year, we’d visit a different castle. This one”—I point to a photo of a historic fortress set on the top of a mountain—“is from our first trip, the summer before I started college.”
Hunter tilts his head, and a soft grin crosses his face. “He’s the reason you believe in romantic love?”
“I’ve never thought of that. I think he just wanted me to know that there was something special out there, waiting for me.”
“That’s not a bad idea to give to your daughter. Unless you spend too long, waiting for a prince to rescue you when you could just climb down the tower yourself.”
I raise a brow. “What do I need a prince for when I have a huntsman?”
He runs his thumb along his lower lip as he takes in the rest of my place. Everything is out in the open to see, and when it comes to Hunter, I actually want him to see it.
I open the fridge and tap my foot. A lot of my meals are frozen dinners, bowls of cereal, or yogurt and granola. Feeding a man on the simple things I have here seems impossible.
“Well, unless you are in the mood for an Amy’s Spinach Pizza, we’re going to have to order in,” I say over my shoulder as I search the freezer.
“Do you like it?” he asks.
“Well, yeah, that’s why it’s in my freezer,” I tease as I take out two boxes. “There’s no meat or anything on them. But they’re good.”
His grin is the cutest when he says, “If you enjoy it, then it’s good for me.”
“Spinach pizza it is!” I point to him, narrowing my eyes. “No complaining if you don’t like it.”