“Who is what?”
“You turned your phone screen like you didn’t want me to see it. Off the top of my head, I can think of exactly one reason you would do that, so… who texted you? Is it Valerie?”
His tone is dismissive, but his face is unconvincing. “No, it’s—I’m—Uh…”
My jaw drops a little as Hunter Maxwell stammers.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about right now,” he says. “Let’s just enjoy the weekend without bringing our shit into it, all right?”
“No. I’d like to know what’s on your phone that you felt the impulse to hide from me. Either you can show me, or I can pack my bag and go home, because now this is all I’m going to think about until I know what it is.”
“It’s nothing, Riley.” He shakes his head, looking a little irritated. “Some asshole posted a picture of you and Sherlock at the party. You guys are walking down the hall toward a bedroom with you in that short-ass skirt. He has his arm around you. It looks like you’re going to hook up, and someone sent it to me. That’s all.”
My stomach drops. “Oh.”
That was not what I was expecting.
“Don’t really want to talk about him,” Hunter says, irritation flickering through his gaze. “Figured you didn’t either, so…”
I look down at my paper, unsure what to say.
“Why does he have his hand on your hip?” Hunter suddenly asks, looking hard at the picture on his phone. “You said he tricked you.”
Now the shoe’s on the other foot, because I don’t have a satisfying answer to that question. “He did. I told you, it all happened so fast. I told him he shouldn’t touch me, that if you saw, you’d get the wrong idea. He did it anyway.”
“It doesn’t look like you’re exactly fighting him off,” Hunter remarks.
“I didn’t fight him off. That would’ve been ridiculous. It was a casual, fleeting touch. You’re looking at a snapshot of a split second, Hunter. A picture obviously posted by someone wanting to cause trouble.”
He kills the screen and puts his phone down on the table with a thud. His jaw is locked, his eyes angry as he opens up his laptop again.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“Starting this fucking homework,” he mutters. “Apparently, I have a lot of work to do.”
I’m partially relieved that he wants to set aside the Sherlock crap and get back to our homework, but I can see he’s mad, and I feel bad. Especially because I’m the one who pushed, but when he turned the screen like that… what was I supposed to think?
“Maybe you should write the letter instead,” I offer lightly, trying to bring his mood back down. “Less work that way.”
“Nah, I’m gonna rewrite the ending. I’ll have Gatsby’s neighbor Sherlock stop over for a night cap and his ass is going to get shot instead.”
Biting back a smile, I shake my head. “That’s terrible.”
“Well, he should’ve kept his fucking lips to himself.”
“He did,” I say lightly. “Unless he kissed Daisy?”
“Fuck Daisy.”
A thought occurs to me, one that whispered through my mind when he had such strong feelings about Gatsby and Daisy. I was reluctant to ask then, but his fuck Daisy sentiment makes it feel more imperative that I clear up the doubt in my own mind.
“I’m not your Daisy, right?”
His gaze flickers to mine. “Of course you’re not Daisy. Daisy is a vapid asshole who cares more about wealth and appearances than people. What part of that could possibly be you?”
“Okay, okay—I was just making sure.”
“I know they say there’s no such thing as a dumb question, but…”
I shoot him an unamused look. “I know I’m not like Daisy, I just wanted to make sure you didn’t think I was. That’s all.”
“No. You’re a lot of things, Riley Bishop, but shallow is not one of them,” he mutters, making it sound much less like a compliment than it really is.
“You’re grumpy,” I point out, as if he doesn’t already know. Dialing up the sweetness several notches, I all but bat my eyelashes at him. “Want me to give you a shoulder rub while you get started? Work out some of that tension?”
He’s still annoyed, but not so annoyed he’ll turn down physical affection. “You just want to watch what I’m writing over my shoulder.”
I grin, dropping my pen and pushing back my chair. “You caught me,” I say as I move to stand behind his chair and position my hands on his exceedingly sexy shoulders.
Hunter opens a fresh document, then turns his head and looks up at me. “If you want to work out my tension, I have a few more ideas if this one doesn’t work.”
“We’ll make a list,” I promise as I start to knead his shoulders. “After we’re finished with our homework, we can try out every last one of them.”
Chapter Fifty
Riley
After Hunter finishes penning his murderous masterpiece and we both finish all of our homework, we get to work on dinner.
Now aware that I have no wine expertise, he takes me down to show me the wine cellar, but doesn’t consult me as he picks out wine to go with dinner.
Hunter is making a pasta dish. He says it’s simple to make since he’s using boxed pasta, but I want to help, so he throws some olive oil and seasoning into a bowl, then tells me to toss the grape tomatoes in and turn them over until they’re all thoroughly coated.
“Would your Italian housekeeper approve of you using boxed pasta?” I inquire, glancing back at him over my shoulder as I coat the tomatoes in olive oil.
Hunter smirks. “Probably not, especially with all this time we have on our hands. Boxed pasta is okay with her if you’re short on time and essentially desperate, but yeah, it’s always better if you make it homemade. Tomorrow night I’ll make you her famous chicken Alfredo. We’ll make fresh fettuccine for that.”
I gasp. “You’re going to show me how to make pasta?”
He turns around and slides his arms around my waist, nuzzling his face in the crook of my neck. “Mm-hmm. It’s only fair since you helped me kill Sherlock.”
I shake my head, tossing the tomatoes again. “I didn’t approve of that, mister. Don’t mistake my help for encouragement. You shouldn’t kill your friends.” I miss a beat, but not long enough for him to latch onto this subject. “It’s nice that we can learn from each other, though. I like that.”
He kisses my neck. “So do I.” He releases me and takes the bowl and spoon from my hands. “Those look adequately tossed. I’ll take it from here.”
“That’s all I get to do?” I ask, turning around and watching him dump the tomatoes and the seasoned olive oil into the baking dish.
“I told you, it’s a simple dish. Tastes delicious, though.”
“I want to do more things.”
Hunter puts the covered dish in the oven and sets the timer. “Tell you what, in 30 minutes, you can smash the tomatoes with a spoon. How’s that?”