Because to him, I’m Lola. The city girl who tripped on a rock and fell into his arms at a birthday party.
Not Lola Jackson, the fashion heiress. The model. The influencer.
Just Lola.
He carries me up the stairs like I weigh nothing and nudges open the bedroom door with his shoulder. He stops in the doorway so I can see it.
“Now this…” he whispers against my ear, “is where lots of research will be conducted.”
I stare at the four-poster bed. The dark wooden walls. The white rug that contrasts with the floor and the warm lighting pooling from the bedside lamps. It’s masculine and clean and beautiful in a way that feels entirely like him.
He closes the door with his foot and carries me through to the ensuite.
My jaw drops.
It’s the size of my entire apartment. A built-in bath that looks like a hot tub, deep enough to disappear into. A waterfall shower with stone tiles. A TV mounted on the wall, because apparently, this man can’t go ten minutes without an option to watch something.
“This is pretty awesome,” I tell him.
He smiles. And it’s the kind of smile that reaches his eyes, softens the hard edges of his jaw, and makes me forget, just for a second, that the world outside this room is on fire.
“Yeah. It is. I love this place.”
I look at him. Standing in the doorway of his bathroom, this enormous, tattooed cowboy who carries a gun to his own front door and makes hot chocolate from scratch. The one who just offered me a place to live without a single condition attached.
He sets me down on the edge of the bath and starts running it. A concoction of different bubble baths gets thrown in one after the other, and the steam rises up carrying lavender and something sweet I can’t name.
It smells divine.
“Do you have any bath bombs?”
He tilts his head like I just asked an alien question. “No. You want some? I’ll stock up.”
“I’ll be fine without, cowboy.”
I bite back a smile as his fingers find the hem of my top, and I lift my arms. My eyes squeeze shut as pain fires across my ribs and a hiss escapes through my teeth.
He peels it off gently.
“Stand,” he orders softly, and helps me to my feet.
With a careful touch, he peels off my leggings and panties. I look down as his eyes land on the bruise blooming across my hip, purple and angry and spreading under my skin.
My breath catches as he leans in and presses his lips there. A kiss so delicate it barely makes contact. Like he’s trying to undo the damage with his mouth.
I feel so broken. So weak. And yet, when he looks up at me from his knees, I still feel beautiful.
Using his shoulders for support, I step out of the last of my clothes. One leg, then the other. Leaving me completely bare. Completely exposed.
He stands. Runs his hands through my hair, pushing it back from my face. But he doesn’t make another move. I can feel his brain working, the gears turning behind those dark eyes, the internal negotiation between what he wants and what he thinks I need.
“Why am I the only one naked?” I ask.
He smiles and clears his throat. “I’m assessing how to behave.”
That makes me laugh. He’s cute. “Why? Just be you. That’s kinda why I like you, Hunter.”
He takes a deep breath. And when he exhales, something shifts behind his expression. A door opens that he’s been holding shut. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Lola. A lot of shit you might want to run from.”