I’ve beenout of the bath for twenty minutes, and I’m wearing one of Hunter’s T-shirts. It hangs to my mid-thigh, smelling like cedar and something that’s just him. My hair is damp and twisted over one shoulder. My bandaged hand throbs in time with my pulse.
I’m pacing.
Back and forth across the bedroom. Past the four-poster bed. Past the window. Past the door. My bare feet are silent on the rug and then loud on the wood and then silent again, and I can’t stop. If I stop moving, my brain will catch up with my body, and I’m not ready for that.
The hot chocolate he brought up while I was in the bath is sitting on the nightstand, going cold. I took two sips, but I can’t stomach any more.
My hip aches. A deep, bone-level throb that flares every time I turn. My wrist is stiff and swollen beneath the bandage. And there’s a headache building behind my eyes that feels like it’s been waiting all night for permission to arrive.
I need painkillers. Badly. But more than that, I need Hunter to walk back through that door.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the bedroom window and stare out at the dark. The ranch is still. The porch light is on, but his truck is gone.
What if Reese fights back? What if he calls the cops? What if Hunter loses his temper and goes too far, and they throw him in a cell, and he doesn’t come home?
My stomach turns.
I can’t just stand here. I need something for the pain, or I’m going to crawl out of my skin.
I crack the bedroom door open and listen. The house is quiet, but not empty. I can hear low voices somewhere downstairs. Music is playing softly from another room. The click of a keyboard.
I pad down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other held against my chest. Every step sends a jolt through my hip, and I clench my jaw against it.
The kitchen is dim. Just the light above the stove is on, casting a warm glow over the counters. I start opening cabinets, searching for anything—Advil, Tylenol, I’d take horse tranquilizers at this point.
“Third one on the left.”
I spin around so fast my hip screams, and a gasp escapes me.
One of Hunter’s brothers is leaning against the doorframe. Arms crossed. Watching me. He’s tall, leaner than Hunter but built from the same mold—broad shoulders, strong jaw, that same dark coloring. His hair is longer, though, pushed back behind his ears, and his eyes are different. Cooler. Harder to read.
“Sorry,” he says, though his expression doesn’t shift. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” I lie. My heart is slamming. “I was just looking for painkillers.”
“Third cabinet on the left. Top shelf.”
I turn and open it. Sure enough, a bottle of ibuprofen sits between a box of adult Band-Aids, dinosaur kids' ones, and a tube of Neosporin. I shake two into my palm, then add a third because tonight has earned it.
“Glasses are above the sink,” he adds.
“Thanks.” I fill a glass, swallow the pills, and turn to face him. He hasn’t moved from the doorway. “I’m Lola.”
“I know who you are.” His tone isn’t unfriendly. But it isn’t warm either. It sits somewhere in between. “Hunter mentioned you’d be here. I’m Beau.”
“Right.” I wrap my good hand around the glass of water. “Sorry for the intrusion. I know this isn’t?—”
“You don’t need to apologize.” He cuts me off, but gently. “This is Hunter’s house. If he says you’re welcome, you’re welcome.”
I nod. There’s something about the way he says it—if he says—that sits oddly in my chest. But I’m in no position to read into anyone’s tone tonight. My nerves are shot. Everything feels like a threat.
“Could I use your phone?” I ask. “I left mine at the apartment, and I need to speak to my friend.”
He studies me for a moment. Then reaches into his back pocket and hands it over without a word.
“Thank you.”
I step into the hallway for some privacy and dial Violet’s number. It rings three times before she picks up.