For the first time in a long time, the shower feels the way it should.

Clean and fresh and hot as hell.

I close my eyes. Imagine Hunter here with me.

His hands in my hair.

His lips on my neck.

His body pressed against mine.

I don't touch myself.

But, for the first time in a long time, I want to.

I want to lose myself in fantasies.

To come thinking of him.

Groaning his name.

It's so not happening.

But that doesn't make it any less appealing.

After, I dress, head to the kitchen, decide what to make for dinner.

There isn't much—I need to pick up groceries tomorrow—but there's enough for chicken piccata.

I turn on the stove, heat a pan, melt butter, pick up the chef's knife.

Stop at the sound of Hunter's voice.

"Hey." He moves down the stairs. Across the living room.

"Hey." I try to make my voice even. Like I haven't been thinking about him naked.

Like I'm used to thinking about guys naked without fraying at the edges.

Seeing Vinnie…

I can't think about that or I'll fall into that memory.

And that isn't happening.

"I just started." I turn the heat down so the butter won't burn. The last thing I need is the irritating beep of the smoke detector. "It will be a little while. Chicken breasts take forever."

"You want help?" His voice is steady. Honest.

I remember a lot about Hunter. He was always honest. And he was always starting shit.

This calm, duty bound, responsible guy—that's not the Hunter I used to know.

But then it's been awhile.

We change. Grow up. Get smarter.

Go through shit that scars us.

"I thought you were useless," I say.

"Terrible."

"So you're really asking for a lesson?"

His chuckle is soft, but it still feels good.

I want him close.

Not in a sexual way.

Not even in a platonic way.

I mean, I do want that.

But I also want him here.

I want someone who will scare off all the Vinnies in the world.

I hate needing that.

But I do.

"Em, are you sure you're okay?" he asks.

No. I'm falling back into those thoughts. They're always around the corner, waiting to pounce. I need to push them aside. To focus on this. "If you're here for a lesson, I'm putting you to work."

"I'm good with my hands."

I try to laugh at the joke, but I don't get quite there. "Here." I set the knife on the cutting board. Press my palms together to steady them. "Butterfly the chicken."

He stares at me like I'm crazy.

"Cut it in half lengthwise." I demonstrate the gesture. "When you unfold it, it has the shape of a butterfly."

"All right." His chuckle gets a little louder.

"Try it." I move to the sink, run the water until it's warm, wash my hands.

Hunter presses two fingers against the chicken breast then slides the knife through it.

He unfolds the chicken on the cutting board.

"Huh." He tilts his head to one side like he's trying to find the right angle. "I guess, if you use your imagination."

"Which you should have. As an artist."

"Don't really think of myself as an artist."

"It's in the job title."

"Still." He turns back to me.

I turn back to the sink. Pretend I'm still washing my hands. "How do you think of yourself?"

"Fuck, that's a loaded question."

Yeah, it is. And there's something about him. This quiet contemplation. Like there's an ocean of torment beneath those blue eyes.

He wasn't like that before.

Or maybe I didn't realize it.

I'm not sure I noticed those kinds of subtleties. More his abs.

I move to the stove. Turn the burner to medium. "Your job."

"Artist sounds so temperamental. Like a guy who's going to throw his latte if someone questions his vision."

"You met my old boss?"

His chuckle is louder. Heartier. "No. But I had my own."

"Yeah?"

He nods. "The shop where I apprenticed. Guy who taught me was great. A hard-ass, yeah, but he gave a shit. He challenged me. He wanted the world for me."

"Then?"

"Then?" His voice drops.

There's a story about what happened at his old shop.

A story he doesn't want me to know.

I want it.

I want to know him.

And not just because he's here or because he's hot or because he's good at scaring off creeps.

Because he's Hunter.

I press my lips together. "The pan's warm. Let's fry this breast. Put it on the pan with the flat side down."

He picks up the chicken breast, turns, steps to the stove, sets it down.

He's right there.

He's so close.

I want to reach out and touch him. To tear off his t-shirt. Unzip his jeans. Run my fingers through his hair.

I want to know that Vinnie didn't change anything.

That sex can still feel good.

That I can still want someone.

I haven't. Not since that… bad date.

It's been three months and I haven't wanted anyone.

Don't get me wrong. It's not like I was expecting to fill the months with hookups.

But I see guys all day. At school. At the department store where I still work once a week. At Inked Hearts.

Hell, the clientele at Inked Hearts is flush with hotties. Every day a surfer boy or celebrity or bodybuilder walks into the shop and takes his shirt off.

Sometimes, twice a day.

Sometimes, twice an hour.

But for three months, I've been staring and nothing…

No ache between my legs.

No desire racing through my veins.

No flutter in my stomach.

Sure, I flirt well enough. It's easier, actually, when I'm not attracted to the guy. There's nothing at stake.

Sometimes, I get numbers.

Then I throw them away.

Go home and tell myself that everything is the same.

That I'm busy with school and work.

It was okay as long as I avoided Vinnie.

But now…

No.

I'm here.

He's there.

I never have to see him again.

It can continue not being a big deal.

"Em?" Hunter asks.

"Yeah?" I press my palms into the tile counter. Hunter is a good guy, but that doesn't mean I can trust him.

He's trying, yeah.

But he's still Brendon's spy.

"What's next?" he asks.

"Oh." Right. We're cooking dinner. Not losing ourselves in our thoughts. It's weird, being stuck in my head. I've never been a daydreamer. I'm not used to it. "This." I flip the chicken breast with a pair of tongs.

"Then?" He moves closer.

His bare arm is pressed against mine.

My breath catches in my throat.

Desire buzzes through my veins.

I need more of it.

I let my eyelids flutter closed.

I try to conjure images of me and Hunter. Of his hands on my thighs, his lips on my neck, his cock driving inside me.

But they're wrong now.

Vinnie is always lurking around the corner.

Whispering something about how I want it with that awful vodka-soaked breath.

"Em?" Hunter asks. "What's next?"

"I thought I told you to cut the other chicken breast."

He motions to it, butterflied on the cutting board.

"Oh." I clear my throat. Motion to the meat thermometer sitting on the counter. "We need to get to one sixty-five. Why don't you check it?"

He picks up the meat thermometer. "How do I do that?"

"Slide it inside the thickest part."

"Oh?" He raises a brow.

"Are you allowed to make sex jokes?"

"According to who?"

"I don't know. Are you using your judgment or Brendon's?"

"You want to remind me that your brother wouldn't appreciate it?" he asks.

No. I don't actually. I just… I don't want to need a babysitter. "I'm just looking out for you."

"Oh?"

I take the meat thermometer and demonstrate. "Wouldn't want him kicking you out." It's supposed to be teasing, but it's not. I want him here. I really do.

"I know I'm annoying—"

"Very annoying."

"But I'm just trying to look out for you. Promise."

"What if we have different ideas of what that means?"

"Tell me."

Uh-huh.

"Really."

"I'll think about it."

He flips the chicken and sets the tongs down on a paper towel. "If you'd prefer I skip the dirty jokes—"

"No. Keep the jokes. Just, watch the quality."

"Oh?" He copies my really expression.

My lips curl into a smile.

It pushes away everything circling through my head.

I want to be here. Focusing on dinner. And the hot guy inches from me.

This should be easy.

Simple.

"So…" I push those thoughts further away. Focus on the way Hunter's deep blue eyes fill with concentration as he checks the temperature. "How are you going to pay me back?"

He arches a brow. "For?"

"Teaching you to cook."

"Thought I was helping."

I motion eh, a little.

He chuckles. "Harsh."

"Truth hurts sometimes."

"What do you want?"

A kiss. A touch. A fuck. Something to make me feel normal again. Please, please, please, make me feel normal. "All I'm doing tonight is studying."

"Studying what?"

"Biology."

"Perfect."

My groan fills the room. "You know biology?"

"No. But I know how to quiz."

"Generous."

"Thanks." His lips curl into a smile.

My knees knock together.

God, he's so handsome.

And, right now, he isn't looking at me like a kid who needs protection.

Right now, I actually believe there's a chance we'll be more.