by Shandi Boyes
Hunter: Killjoy.
I smile while my fingers fumble over the screen.
Me: Peeping Tom.
Hunter: Only for you, Paige. I’ll see you soon.
Me: Yes, you will. In person.
Hunter: Can’t wait.
I spent the first hour of my morning preparing for my dinner date with Hunter. Then the next two hours are spent in front of my Mac, adding a decent amount of words to the already impressive word count of my manuscripts.
Usually, I'd only pen one novel at a time, but with the broad range of storylines hammering into me since I arrived at Bronte's Peak, I'm currently juggling two different manuscripts. One, the contemporary romance piece on Archer Boyd, and the other a romantic suspense novel about a millionaire businessman and his Aphrodite.
I hit save on my manuscripts when the back sliding door of the cabin opening bellows up the stairwell.
“Hey, Hunter, I’m in my writing cave,” I shout out, impatiently waiting for my program to save everything before shutting it down. With a threat of a storm looming, I don’t like leaving my imperative electronic devices plugged in.
A large smile sweeps across my face when a loud stomps echoes through my ears. Someone’s a little eager.
Powering down my laptop, I yank the cord out of the wall and spin around to face Hunter. My breath snags halfway to my lungs when I run smack bang into a solid, suit-covered chest. I linger my eyes on the well-formed chest for several heart-thrashing seconds, giving my heart the chance to settle down before I lift them to a face I can recall in photographic memory.
“Merry Christmas, Candace.” Riley swoops down and plants a kiss onto my O-formed mouth.
If he’d slapped me in the face, he couldn’t have shocked me more. I yank away from him, stumbling over my feet and falling into my leather writing chair.
“Wow, careful there, darling, you’ll hurt yourself.” Even though he thinks he sounds endearing, all I hear is the condescending tone of a horrid man.
“What are you doing here, Riley?” I stammer out, the mad beat of my heart revealed in my voice.
When he takes a step closer to me, I hold out my hand, demanding for him to stop.
"It's Christmas, Candace. I've spent every Christmas with you the past seven years; I didn't want to miss one.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. "Unfortunately I've arrived so late as it has taken me this long to track you down."
He rocks on his heels, his entire composure screaming of superiority and arrogance. Oh my god, is that how Hunter saw me the first time. A rich, condescending, arrogant snob?
Riley takes another step closer to me, interpreting my silence as an open invitation. “God, I’ve missed you, darling.”
My spikes bristle. “Oh, I'm sure you did while you had Beth sleeping in my bed,” I reply, my tone firm and smeared with bitchiness.
Riley's pupils widen, and he gasps in a quick breath, shocked I knew about his affair with Beth, let alone him moving her into our shared home.
“Yeah, I knew all about Beth. Why do you think I left?”
The smug smirk on his face weakens as he swallows bleakly. "It was a mistake, Candace. I love you. I realize that now. It won't happen again," he replies, his pitch as arrogant as the pompous look on his face.
He actually believes I’ll forgive him just by hearing that one pathetic apology. If you can even call it that. It was more a statement than an attempt of pleading for forgiveness. He didn't even say he was sorry.
My teeth grit when he grasps my wrists and hoists me from my writing chair. A hiss of air escapes my mouth when my chest crashes into his. Unlike the times I’ve crashed into Hunter, this is a hiss of anger - not excitement. His cagey eyes bounce between mine. Even though he only turned thirty last year, he looks at least five years older. Deceit does age you.
“I promise you, Candace, there's no other woman in the world for me but you.” He tightens his grip around my waist.
I clench my fists into balls and attempt to yank away from him. The more I fight, the harder he holds me.
“You have to believe me, Candace.”
The air is vehemently removed from my lungs when the rich, chocolatey voice of Hunter sounds through my ears. “Who is Candace?”
Swinging my eyes to the entranceway of my writing cave, I discover Hunter standing on the stoop of the stairs. One of his arms is hanging at the side of his body, his fist clenched tightly, while the other is slipped behind his back, no doubt bracing his gun he houses in the back of his jeans. The tick of his jaw intensifies as his eyes drift between Riley and me. I push off Riley's chest and take a step backward, wanting to ensure Hunter doesn't misconstrue our position as intimate.
Hunter's eyes lock with mine, silently asking if I'm okay. When I nod, his hand slides deeper into the back of his jeans before his eyes shift to Riley. His jaw is ticking, and his gaze is dangerous.
“Who are you?” Hunter asks, his voice rough and brimmed with anger.
“Riley,” he responds cockily, his tone tarnished with arrogance. “Candace’s fiancé.”
Riley cranks his neck to look at me. “Candace, who is this guy?” he asks, his voice a stern as the mask slipping over Hunter’s face.
“Who the fuck is Candace?” Hunter snarls, his loud voice booming through my ears, startling me.
I stand still, frozen in shock. I try to get my mouth to work, but seeing Hunter and Riley stand side by side has muted me into silence. I knew it would be like comparing night to day.
Hunter is wearing a plaid shirt and a pair of ripped designer jeans. His feet are covered with the black motorcycle boots he regularly wears, and although his beard has been recently trimmed, it covers a vast majority of his gorgeous face. His hair is longer than when I first saw him, hanging an inch below his ears. Riley is decked out in a navy blue pinstriped suit with a ghastly Christmas-themed tie, and his shoes are so polished, I can see my reflection in them. His model-inspired face is void of any type of facial hair, and his hair is cut in a short back and sides style.
They couldn’t be any more different if they tried.
Riley takes a step closer to Hunter, glaring at him like he usually did to our gardener when he trimmed our lawn shorter than he liked. "I'm Riley," he advises again, like Hunter is hard of hearing. Gesturing his hand to me, he says, "Candace's fiancé."
Hunter takes a step backward, physically impacted by Riley's lie. His pupils widen, swamping the whole cornea of his murky blue eyes. I shake my head, soundlessly denying Riley's statement. Hunter doesn't acknowledge my silent response; his focus is solely fixed on Riley. He looks both angry and devastated at the same time.
Before I get the chance to gain Hunter’s attention, Riley asks, “And you are?”
My heart shatters into a million pieces when Hunter answers, “I'm Hunter. Candace’s friend.”
Hunter glares at me over Riley’s shoulder, nothing but pure resentment reflecting from his shattered eyes. “Just thought I’d come and check on my friend since it’s Christmas and she was all alone. You know, it’s the friendly thing to do.” He shifts his hardhearted eyes back to Riley. “But you look like you’ve got this covered.”
“That I do.” Riley’s tone is as arrogant as the expression on his face.
“Hunter,” I squeak out when he spins on his heels and gallops down the stairs. “Wait! Hunter, please.”
I barge past Riley, yanking my arm out of his firm grip when he tries to stop me. My heart races a million miles an hour as I chase after Hunter. I beg for my legs to continue moving as a barrage of emotions slams into me at once: fear, resentment, confusion. It all smashes into me.
“Hunter, wait,” I call out again when I catch him in the driveway of his house, my voice trembling as fear clutches my throat. “Give me a chance to explain.”
A small moment of relief washes over me when his furious pace slows. After inhaling a deep breath to replenish my lungs with air, I quickly span the distance between us. His eyes are filled with pai
n, matching mine to a T. His fists are balled in front of his body and his face is stern.
“That wasn’t what it looked like—”
“Is your name Paige or Candace?” he asks, his tone raspy and full of warning of his anger that's rapidly surging.
“It’s not that simple.”
“Yes, it is,” he sneers, his voice vicious and low. “Is your name Paige or Candace?”
"Just give me a chance to explain," I plead, my voice jittery.
Hunter’s eyes scorch into mine. “Answer the fucking question! What is your name? Your real name.”
A tear drips down my cheek as I faintly murmur, “It's Candace.”
The anger projecting out of Hunter strangles the oxygen out of the air, making it hard for me to breathe. Even with his jaw covered with a thick beard I’ve grown to love, I can’t miss the furious tick inflicting it. He glares at me for numerous heart-pounding seconds before he turns on his heels and continues on his original journey. I try to go after him. I want to. But my legs refuse to move, weighed down by the pain stabbing the middle of my chest.
“I’m sorry, Hunter” I strangle out before he curls into his car and slams the door shut. His car fishtails out of control, barely missing the large steel gate at the entrance of his property when he slams his foot onto the accelerator.
The smell of gravel and burning rubber lingers in the air for several minutes after Hunter’s dramatic exit. I remain motionless in the middle of the driveway, giving myself some time to wade through what just transpired. I am truly at a loss. Both dazed and confused.
I only snap back to reality when an arm curls around my shoulders. When I recognize the disgusting bottled cologne I’ve grown to hate infiltrating the air around me, I yank out of Riley’s embrace.
"Oh come on, Candace, if I can get over you sleeping with a lumberjack, you can get over my affair with Beth," Riley snaps, his voice reverting to the normal condescending tone I'd become accustomed to hearing the past seven years.
I spin on my heels, my movements quick and manic. “You need to leave,” I sneer, pointing to a dark gray rental car sitting at the front of the cabin.
“Candace.” Riley steps closer to me, his tone mocking.
“Stop calling me that. No one calls me Candace anymore,” I demand while flinging a rogue tear off my cheek.
Riley glares at me. “It’s your name, isn’t it?”
My tears rapidly dry as my sadness at Hunter’s abrupt departure is overtaken by anger at Riley’s sudden arrival. “You don’t call me Candace because it's my christened name. You use it for the social status associated with it.”
My teeth grit when he doesn't attempt to negate my claims. "That's why you came back, isn't it? It's just dawned on you the extent of your unfortunate timing.
A cunning grin curls on my lips when a mask of panic slips over Riley’s face. “Well, now that we have that settled, let’s hash out a few more points. This,” I gesture my hand between us, “will never happen again. As far as any media or press-associated industries are concerned, we never happened to begin with. And for every second you delay leaving, you’re lowering your political chances more and more,” I threaten, my tone warning him I'm not joking. The Candace he remembers is long gone, and I fully plan on showing him that.
His eyes slit. “The bitterness of a scorned woman will have no influence on my future candidacy bid.”
"I may not, but what about my father?" I cross my arms over my chest. "I'm fairly confident when he hears about the extracurricular activities you've undertaken the past three years of our relationship, he will be more than happy to have a friendly chat with your campaign donors and supporters."
The panic in Riley’s eyes increases with every syllable that seeps from my lips. "And what's that saying you've always quoted?" I tap my mouth, pretending I've forgotten the quote he spilled numerous times the past three years. "Without power, you'll never have money, but without money, you'll never have power."
I straighten my spine and stare him straight in the eyes. “You’ll have neither money nor power if you don’t leave right now.”
He glares at me with nothing but pure disdain on his face, but I don't back down. I am a stronger, more determined, kickass Paige than he knows, and I'm not putting up with his shit anymore.
A waft of air hits me in the face when Riley storms by me, marching to the rental car sitting in the driveway. I try to hold in my smile, to show a small skerrick of the class my mother ingrained in me, but no matter how hard I fight, I can’t stop the victorious grin etching onto my face. The victory feels too good to contain.
“I hope your fall into the gutter doesn’t hurt too much,” Riley snarls, curling into the car.
"Not any more than it did with you."
Chapter Twenty-Two
I tug my knitted cardigan in tighter, vying to stop the winter chill blowing in from the west. I've been sitting in the sand dunes at the front of my rented cabin, watching the waves tumble to shore for the past two hours. Bronte's Peak is the quietest it has been since I arrived here months ago.
Usually, too much silence makes me crazy, but I needed fresh air, hoping it would lessen the swirls hampering my stomach the past six hours. Although the cramps encumbering my tummy have eased, the crisp winter air has done nothing to dampen the pain inside my heart. I shouldn't be surprised, though, even a pep talk from Pepper wasn't able to settle that pain.
I’ve been calling Hunter’s cell nonstop for the past six hours. Every single one of my calls have gone directly to his voicemail. When I text, I get an automated response saying my text has bounced and to try at a later date. The only godsend I have is knowing I'm his neighbor. Sooner or later he will have to return home. And when he does, I plan on begging for a chance to explain why I lied to him. My little fib isn’t as heinous as Hunter thinks it is, and when he gives me the opportunity to defend myself, I am sure he will see the funny side to it.
The Weekend Romance by Rachel Maloney is a loosely based fictional story of how the governor of New York City's daughter — my mom — fell madly in love with the gardener's son — my dad. The story includes numerous real-life facts about their relationship, like the first day they met when my dad fell off a ladder pruning the bushes at my grandfather's estate when he spotted my mom sauntering by the large, elegant windows, to the precious words they spoke to each other when they discovered they were going to become parents.
My mom penned The Weekend Romance as a gift to my father for their tenth wedding anniversary. My dad was so impressed with her work, he encouraged her to have the book published. He never expected it to be a New York Times number one bestselling book for eight weeks in a row, be translated into thirteen foreign languages, and made into a blockbuster motion picture. If he had known that, he might have pleaded harder with my mom to reconsider her decision to leave the characters’ names as the original names she used in the manuscript.
Actually, scrap that. I don't think he'd change a thing. I was only a child at the time my mom penned The Weekend Romance, and even I knew she was creating brilliance, so I'm sure my dad was even more aware. For the six months following the release of the novel, my father playfully called me by my middle name — Paige. As the months went by, the name stuck. Those nearest and dearest to me call me Paige. The only person in my inner circle who hasn't the past fifteen years is Riley.
The twisting of my heart amplifies when an engine rumbles through the quietness surrounding me. I leap up from the sand dunes and crank my neck to Hunter’s house. A large exhale leaves me when I spot Hunter’s Hellcat gliding down the driveway of his home. I knew you’d eventually come home.
Gathering the picnic blanket from the ground, I wrap it around my arm as I urgently stride up the sand-lined path between our properties. My pace quickens when the rich smoothness of Hunter’s voice slides through my ears. It's like melted chocolate on a hot summer day. I’ve just cleared the opening of the sand dunes when a light in his house flicks on, illumin
ating his entire property with an artificial glow. My heart skips a beat when I catch the quickest glimpse of him moving toward the bi-fold doors at the back of his living space.
My heart completely stops beating when my stalking gaze captures another body in his presence. Jealousy twists my stomach, winding it all the way up my throat when a beautiful woman with waves of red hair enters the living area of Hunter's house. Her eyes are zooming around the surroundings with eagerness, absorbing the enormity and grandeur of his house. I stand frozen, hidden in the shadows of his patio when the cute redhead removes her shoes and jacket, looking like she's preparing to settle in for an extended stay.
My pulse is racing, sending my heart rate to a dangerous level. I attempt to suck in some deep breaths, but nothing can settle the morbid fear crippling me from the inside out. I beg for my eyes to look away when a set of privacy curtains I didn't even know Hunter owned start rolling down the large panels of glass his house is designed with. Even though the blinds slide fluidly into place, they aren't quick enough to conceal the image of the redhead slinging her arms around Hunter's shoulders and nuzzling into the crook of his neck.
When the pain becomes too crippling for me to handle, I throw the blanket to the ground and scream blue murder. I thought walking in on my fiancé in the midst of an affair hurt. This hurts ten times more. I trusted Hunter. I showed him the real Paige, a side hardly anyone gets to see, and he still betrayed me. That hurts more than anything.
Flinging a rogue tear off my cheek, I rush into the cabin and crank the stereo as loud as it will go, refusing to hear another moan of ecstasy screamed from my neighbor's house. The pain knotted in my throat intensifies when I enter my writing cave to hide from the image I know will rip my heart straight out of my chest.
When I slide down to sit on the wooden floor, my eyes catch sight of my storyboards of Archer Boyd: the bearded billionaire who lives in a crystal house. Even though a majority of the board is made up of only handwritten notes, I've studied Hunter in so much depth the past three months, I can physically see each expression I jotted down. Like a movie playing before my eyes, each scribbled note is displayed in graphic detail.