Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 120134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120134 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 601(@200wpm)___ 481(@250wpm)___ 400(@300wpm)
I fidgeted with my fingers under the table. Hunter ordered both of us root beer, earning an approving smile from me. He proceeded to frown at the menu, fingering the wooden horse peeking through his dress shirt. Rolling my thumb over the edge of the menu, I watched the little horse pressed against the blanket of his fair chest hair, and idly wondered where my brain was, because I definitely didn’t bring it with me to this pub. I finally understood the phrase stupid hot.
Hunter’s hotness made me stupid.
“What’s up with the horse?” I cleared my throat, frowning at my menu before he could catch me ogling him.
Hunter withdrew his hand from it, realizing what he was doing.
“Oh, this old shit?” He chuckled, snatching the root beer the waiter gave us and taking a drink to buy time. “It’s nothing.”
“Tell me how you got it anyway.” I linked my fingers together, placing my chin over my knuckles. The guy next to me burped loudly, a warm gust of meat-breath fanning the side of my face.
I breathed through my mouth, trying not to gag.
“When I was a kid, whenever I was home from boarding school, my parents used to throw a nanny or two on my ass so they wouldn’t have to spend time with me. On my sixth…no, eighth nanny, Da decided I needed to learn how to play polo. I was being kind of a prick about it. That summer, Nanny Number Eight—shit if I remember her name, but she was Swedish—had to physically wrestle me into the car before practice every day. I hated horses with a passion. What’s to like about the fuckers? They smell, they sleep while standing, and have no gag reflex—which, if I may say, makes them rad fuck buddies, but horrible dining mates. But I digress. So I guess my Swedish nanny was starting to get a little worried for her job because I was displaying resistance—also known as being a goddamn kid. One day she gave me this Dala horse as a gift. Told me the Swedish believe it brings good luck, and I’d never fall from a horse if I wore it. Mind you, I believed in Santa until I was, like, thirteen, so of course I bought it.”
“And did you? Fall from a horse, I mean?”
He looked up from the menu, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Nope. Zero scratches. No car accidents, either.”
“You remember.” I stared at him pointedly. I knew the truth of my statement. It burned in my bones.
“Remember what?” His face was carefully blank.
“The name of that Swedish nanny.”
He remembered it because he cared. But he didn’t want to care. Hunter wasn’t stupid at all. He just built walls upon walls around himself that made it difficult to get through to him, because in his experience, people weren’t there to stay.
He flashed me a devilish grin. “Sorry, sweets, I don’t. What about you? How’d you get into archery, anyway? That shit’s deader than Henry the Sixth.”
Hunter took another sip of his root beer, a dark mustache forming on his upper lip. He licked it clean, and I watched as his tongue slowly swept across his mouth. I felt my throat bob. It reminded me he never had cashed in our kiss.
Maybe he forgot all about it after your meltdown at the fundraiser.
“You’ll laugh,” I warned.
“Naturally.”
I looked down. “It’s a cliché, actually. Robin Hood. Specifically, when I was little, I loved the idea of being an outlaw who’s also good. Maybe because my dad…” I paused, swallowing the shame in my throat.
“Is a respectable businessman unless proven otherwise?” Hunter quirked an eyebrow.
I laughed, feeling myself blush. “Exactly. The rumors about him chased me. His alleged sins were mine, too. I’m sure you know what it’s like to be defined by other family members.”
Hunter nodded. “Straight up.”
“I liked the narrative of Robin Hood, the romanticizing of a criminal. He seeks adventure, steals from the rich, and gives to the poor. Also, the fox in the Disney film was very orange, like my hair,” I admitted, warranting more of Hunter’s addictive laughter.
It somehow drowned out all the other noise, even from the guy next to me, who was now chain-cursing at his friend. He spoke animatedly, with his hands, and sometimes elbowed me when he tried to demonstrate something.
“Besides, I always wanted to know how to use a weapon. Guns are cold, metallic, impersonal; archery requires patience, precision, and passion,” I concluded. “Once I got into it, it became an addiction. It was a safe haven from the chatter about my family, about me. I guess by now you can tell I don’t have a ton of friends, so this helped burn time after school.”
It was unlike me to open up to someone, especially a stranger, and a beautiful, male one at that. I sounded like a reject, but if Hunter felt I was oversharing or pitied me, his face didn’t betray it.