I had no idea how he did it, but Hunter's notes on my WIP had shattered the wall around my mind. My inspiration burst to life inside of me and I managed to knock out thirteen thousand words by dinner time.

I couldn’t believe it.

I hadn't managed to write that many words in three whole months.

Feeling proud, I saved the document and quickly emailed myself a copy before heading into the kitchen for brain fuel.

The moment I walked into the kitchen and my eyes landed on Hunter, a roar of laughter tore from my throat. "Oh my god," I spluttered as I laughed and pointed at him. "You look ridiculous." The sight of him clad in the novelty apron Colton had bought Noah last Christmas, the one with the huge penis hanging off, caused me to double up.

"I can whip out my own dick if you want," he shot back, not caring that he looked like a complete tool. "This one doesn’t do the poor guy any justice."

"The poor guy?" I couldn’t stop the snort that escaped me. "You're so weird."

"I'll take that," Hunter countered with a smile. "Now go and sit. I've made…" his voice trailed off as he looked down at the casserole dish in his hands and frowned. "Something."

"Something?"

"It was supposed to be chili con carne," he replied, still frowning at the dish. "It looked like chili con carne when I put it in the oven."

"And now?" I laughed.

"Now?" He shook his head and grimaced. "I can't tell."

"Oh god," I chuckled, taking a seat at the table. "Will it kill me?"

"I hope not," he shot back. He walked over to the table and placed the incinerated looking dish of slop on the table and handed me a fork. "Maybe I should taste it first to be sure." He stabbed his fork into the dish and scooped up a tiny piece.

"Together?" I offered, using my own fork to pick out a slightly less burnt piece.

"You sure?" he asked, looking uncertain.

"Yeah. Let's just do it on three," I replied. "One…Two… Three –"

We both shoved our forks into our mouths and stared at each other.

"I can't do it," Hunter forced out, heaving as he chewed viciously, obviously trying to force it down his throat.

"Ugh," I gagged when the sour taste hit my senses followed by the burning heat of spice and peppers enveloping my tongue. "Oh god…"

"Jesus fucking Christ." Shoving his chair back, Hunter rushed over to the sink and shoved his face under the faucet. "Don’t swallow it," he called out, still heaving as he held his tongue directly beneath the running water. "Don't fucking do it to yourself."

"Don’t worry," I promised as I reached for the dish and spat the food back out. "I won't."

"Fuck," Hunter muttered when he finally turned off the faucet. He shuddered and glared at the dish containing the substance that had almost killed us both. "Please get it out of my sight," he groaned, rubbing his stomach. "I can't fucking look at it."

Laughing at his reaction, I stood up, grabbed the dish and walked over to the trash can before scraping the poison into it.

"Just toss the whole lot," he ordered grimly.

"What – the dish as well?"

"I'll replace it." He shuddered once more before adding, "I don’t trust soap to remove the god-fucking-awfulness of that."

I threw my head back and laughed. "I gather cooking isn’t one of your specialties then?"

"I can definitely do more productive things with my hands," Hunter agreed, giving me one of those half-smiles. "Like use them to order pizza?"

"Pizza sounds great." I smiled brightly at his suggestion. "See, I knew you were a genius!"

* * *

Jordan

Exhaustion had crept inside my bones, and by the time I got home from work tonight, all I wanted to do was face plant on the mattress and pass out, but the laptop and scores of sheets and papers scattered all over our bed made that impossible.

"Sorry about the mess," Hope announced when she noticed me standing in the doorway of our room. Her hair was on top of her head, held up in a messy bun with three pencils. "I'm burning through this chapter," she explained as she typed furiously. "Give me an hour and I'll move my stuff."

"Don’t worry about it," I croaked out, rubbing a hand over my jaw. I was so fucking tired. "I'll take the couch tonight."

Hope stopped what she was doing and turned to look at me.

"You don’t have to do that, Jordan," she said, sounding hurt. "This is your house. I'll move my stuff."

"No, it's fine." I waved a hand out dismissively. "I'll grab a blanket from the cupboard and crash downstairs."

I left the room then, before she had a chance to say anymore, because I was too hurt and too goddamn tired to fight with her.

My trust was gone.

And every time I looked at her now, all I could see was a stranger.