Hunter’s voice sounded surprisingly near me, and I caught a glimpse of his hand, reaching for mine—I reached out, but the water pushed me away and I slipped under the waves again, my feet not finding the sandy bottom—I surfaced with another lung-searing gasp, caught a glimpse of the concern on Hunter’s face, lit by the moon, before the water claimed me once more—
And then Hunter’s strong arms were around me, my face pressed against his chest; I could feel as well as hear his relieved sigh as he felt my pulse. The muddy scent of the lake and the electrical smell of the storm were overwhelmed by the smell of him, so familiar and comforting. He shifted his position so he could hold onto me while he swam one-handed to shore, and soon we were close enough that I could stand on my own, and begin to slog along with him towards shelter.
“Thank you,” I choked out, my legs still shaking beneath me.
He took his arm from around my shoulder, and it felt like losing a limb of my own. Then he slid it around my waist to hold me upright, and I knew that I wanted him to never let go.
“I’m so sorry,” I said. I almost whispered it, but somehow he still heard it above the rising wind.
“It’s okay,” he said. His voice was equally soft. “I should have known better.”
I didn’t know if we were talking about the boat or about us, and for that moment, held in Hunter’s arms, I didn’t care.
“Come on,” he said, “we’re pretty close. Let’s head in, get warmed up.”
“The boat—” I protested.
“Will be there in the morning,” Hunter pointed out.
“Not if the storm—”
“I can always get another boat.” There was a rueful tone to his voice. “You’re much harder to replace.”
#
“Here,” Hunter said, offering me a wool blanket as I emerged from the bathroom in a dry set of clothes. All he’d had on hand for me to change into were a pair of his boxers and an oversized flannel shirt, and I was 99% sure I caught him staring at my bare legs as I made my way across the room.
“Thanks.”
He wrapped the blanket snug around my shoulders and steered me onto the couch, where I curled up under the heavy blanket and tried to stop shivering. Hunter went back to building up the fire. He hadn’t changed out of his wet clothes yet. The cloth clung to the firm muscles of his back, and I was torn between admiring the view and worrying myself sick about him catching cold.
“There,” he said when the flames sprang into life.
“Thanks,” I said again.
What sparkling conversationalists we were.
“I’ll heat up some stew,” he said, clomping over to the freezer.
“Great,” I said.
Well, at least it wasn’t ‘thanks’ again.
Damn. Things had been so perfect for that moment in the water. I had thought that once the tension broke, it would keep breaking, would bring us back to where we had been before this whole mess exploded. But instead the tension seemed to have formed itself right back together, with hardly a crack to show where it had snapped.
Hunter dumped the frozen stew out of an ice cream bucket into what looked like a glorified tea kettle, hung it over a hook in the fireplace, and then sat on the opposite end of the couch as me. I tried not to pout, and failed.
If there’d be a way to sit any farther from me without leaving the cabin, I’m sure he’d have taken it. As it was, I caught him looking out the window at the sheeting rain more than a few times, like he was assessing his chances for an escape. Yep, a raging storm was more appealing to Hunter than being in the same room as me; if I hadn’t known that I’d made some poor life choices before, I definitely knew that now.
I wished I knew what to say to make him look at me. And not just to sneak those lusty glances I kept noticing him shooting in my direction when he thought I wasn’t paying attention; I wanted him to really look at me and cut this hot-and-cold bullshit. Clearly he cared about me, didn’t he? Why couldn’t we just talk?
We sat in awkward silence for what seemed an eternity but was probably only twenty minutes or so. Hunter pulled the stew off the hook before it got hot, probably more to have something to do than because he thought it was ready. Still, it tasted great, beef and carrots and spices all blended together, and just enough chili pepper for the warmth to sink down into your bones without setting your tongue on fire.
It didn’t taste quite like the gourmet meals back at the manor, though. Had he bought this somewhere local? Maybe I could get some, for nights when I was feeling extra pathetic and wanted a sense memory of time spent with him, even if it had been terrible, awkward, silent time.
“Did you get this at a market nearby?” I asked.
He grunted. “It’s homemade.”
“Your cook made this?” I said, surprised. I’d gotten used to fancier fare at Chez Knox.
Hunter shook his head. For a second I thought that was going to be his only response, but then he grunted, “I did.”
I was amazed. “Really?”
“It’s not so hard.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Old family recipe.”
He tried to say it casually, but there was a world of hurt in those last three words.