He smiles faintly, but there’s a question glimmering in his beautiful brown eyes. “When I hauled you in here, you fought pretty hard. Did you not know it was me?”
Guilt flickers through me. He must be able to see it on my face.
Hunter’s eyes dim, along with his smile. “Who’d you think it was?”
There’s no right answer to this question.
My heart hammers in my chest. I feel put on the spot, and torn on what to say.
“Obviously, you’re the only one I wanted it to be. I was just confused. I wasn’t expecting it.” I smile faintly. “When I encouraged creative kidnapping, I didn’t think you’d take me quite so seriously.”
His lips curve up a tad knowingly. “That’s not what I asked.”
My heart flutters.
I hug him. “I love you.”
“I know. Who did you think it was?” he demands more firmly, not letting me off the hook with evasive maneuvers, no matter how playful or sweet.
I pull back and look up at him. “Why does it matter?”
Hunter cocks an eyebrow. “Seriously?”
Okay, that was a stupid question.
I know why it matters.
It matters because Hunter only saw 30 seconds of my “date” with Sherlock. That leaves a lot of blank space on the canvas when he thinks about what might have transpired between us before we entered his bedroom that night.
It was Hunter’s party, but he wasn’t even really there, and Sherlock specifically planned for us to show up late. Hunter doesn’t know how long we spent together before coming upstairs. He doesn’t know when Sherlock picked me up at my house or when we got to his, and he didn’t see any of our interactions.
In the freeze frame of what he did witness, he saw Sherlock kiss me. He saw him potentially care about leaving me in harm’s way with another man.
It may have even been a test asking me to sit between him and Sherlock at lunch on Monday—one I didn’t know I was taking until right now, when he already has the results.
Maybe Hunter wanted to see how we interacted. How I acted around him.
I replay that lunch, looking at it through this new lens.
Hunter touched me a lot. I thought he was just being so affectionate to make a subtle statement to his friends so they would accept me, but maybe he wanted to see how Sherlock reacted.
He knows both of us separately, but he hasn’t really seen us together—outside of the time we tumbled into a bedroom together, his bite mark on my bottom lip.
Hunter thinks I’d like Sherlock, that much is clear.
If I think Sherlock would take it so far as to abduct me out of a hallway at school… well, that must mean I think he’d like me, too.
My heart races. It feels suspiciously like guilt.
I remind myself I haven’t done anything wrong.
Looking up at him, I ask the only question I can think of. “Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do,” he answers without hesitation.
“Good.” I lock my arms around his neck, leaning in and hugging him. “Then it doesn’t matter.”
I can tell it’s not what he wants to hear, but it is the truth.
Because it doesn’t matter if I could have liked Sherlock.
It doesn’t matter if he could’ve liked me.
I may not want to call Hunter my boyfriend, but I do belong to him. I always have, since the day I stumbled across him on a footbridge in the woods behind his house.
Surely he knows that.
It seemed like he believed me when I finally explained about everything that led up to me and Sherlock tumbling into his bedroom.
It seemed like he meant it just a second ago when he swore he trusted me.
But when I look up into his tempestuous brown eyes… I’m not so sure.
Chapter Forty Five
Riley
Mom hovers in the hall outside my bedroom as I pack my weekend bag. She makes so many trips back-and-forth that she runs out of excuses and finally comes back with a feather duster.
“What are you doing?” I ask as I fold a top and put it in my weekend bag.
I didn’t even have a weekend bag, but I bought one for myself when Hunter sent me and my mom shopping.
I bought something else I think he will enjoy this weekend while I was on that shopping spree, but I don’t want Mom to see it, so it’s buried in the bottom.
“What?” Mom says innocently. “What do you mean? I’m dusting picture frames.”
“You have never dusted the picture frames.”
“That’s not true,” she says, leaning over to peek through my doorway.
“I’m not doing anything interesting in here,” I say, glancing over my shoulder at her.
“Um, you are packing for a weekend away with your boyfriend. I find that pretty interesting.”
“He’s not really my boyfriend, and that is definitely not interesting. I’m just putting clothes in a bag.”
“Well, I created you. Maybe I am compelled to find everything you do interesting.”
I walk over to my dresser and open the top drawer to grab some socks. “Would you like to come in?”
“Do you want me to come in?”
“Well, I don’t have anything for you to dust,” I say wryly.
Mom shoots me a look and gives up the pretense of dusting as she steps inside. “Did you bring a bathing suit?”
“No.” I stop and look back at her, frowning slightly. “Do you think I should?”
“The weather is still nice and Hunter does have a pool, doesn’t he?”
“Yeah, I guess he does. I didn’t think about that.”
Mom tries to stifle a cringey face, but doesn’t altogether succeed. “I guess I should just be happy you’re taking any clothes at all.”
I make a face. “Ew. I rescind my invitation, I’m kicking you out now.”
“I’m just saying, I checked out his Instagram. The boy grew up very well.”
I open the bottom drawer and dig out my swimsuit. “Ew, ew, ew. Mom, stop saying words.”
“Hey, it’s not my fault he doesn’t like wearing shirts.”
“I mean it, not another syllable.”
“Closed shirts, at least. He likes the open shirt look, doesn’t he? I suppose if I had abs like his, I wouldn’t want to wear a shirt, either.”
I cover my ears and sigh dramatically.
“And your insane mother, high on spa treatments and shopping, somehow agreed to let you spend a whole weekend alone with this kid. Someone get that woman a straight jacket.”
I point at the door. “Out.”
Mom stomps her foot. “Nooo, don’t kick me out. I’ll be good, I promise. No more cheeky comments about the attractiveness of the boy you are spending the weekend with.”
“You do not have to freak out about this,” I tell her as I take the socks and my bathing suit over to my weekend bag. “I get that it’s weird for you, I understand why you’re not entirely comfortable with it, but it’s no different than if I spent the weekend with any other friend.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s a little different.”
“It’s not about sex. I just want to spend the weekend with him. I enjoy spending time with him outside of school, and even though he has been back for a while, we haven’t really had a chance to spend much quality time together. Now that he isn’t angry at me for getting him shipped off to Italy, I want to hear about it. He’s mentioned his dad and stepmom and a half-sister in passing, but I want to hear about all the years I missed. I want to know what that part of his family is like, what their relationships are like. I want to hear about Italy. I’d like to see pictures.”