I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Hunter Thorne standing over my table at the Red Lion Tavern. I'd firmly placed him in my "ones that got away" category.

It's a small category. Actually… he's the only one in it.

All I wanted was to sit by myself, read my book, and blend into the crowd. It was the first time since the divorce that I'd felt energetic enough to venture out for a night, even if it was just for a date with my book. The absolute last thing I wanted was to meet a man.

Especially that man. But there he was, exactly like I remembered him, but... more. More everything.

He was hot in high school, but now he's positively a ripped wall of confidence, self-assuredness, and attractiveness.

And he was so damn sexy. Arms rolling with muscle, that sideways grin framed by a thick, dark beard, and those gorgeous tattoos that he definitely didn't have when he left Maple Ridge eight years ago.

I don't normally like men with tattoos. But I like Hunter with tattoos.

He still affects me like no other man ever has. I used to think we would be together, always. But I'm just starting to get over my divorce, and learning what it means to be on my own side. The absolute last thing I need right now are complications. And even though going to bed with Hunter is the sexiest complication I can imagine, I'm not going to let it happen. Even if I've never forgotten what it feels like to have his lips on my skin, his hard cock against my soft skin, riding him into the early morning hours.

He hurt me once, and I won't give him the chance to do it again.

So now, this hunk of man is standing in my kitchen, rifling through my cupboards, assembling a midnight snack for the both of us. And he's being a really flirty—and bossy—jerk about it.

"How do you live like this?" he asks, chuckling to himself. "I'd get my ass handed to me for maintaining my barracks like this in the SEALs." He shuts the wooden cupboard with a hollow thump, coming up empty handed. He sweeps his dark black hair out of his eyes, sizing me up like I'm an unruly private under his command. I stand against the back of a chair at the kitchenette table, my hands tucked under my butt.

"I mean, I was trying to build a home and a future, but it all went down the drain with Sandra."

"Sandra, huh? Sandra sounds like an asshole."

"That's what I thought too."

"Your ex-husband sounds like one too. Any man who'd cheat on you is garbage. And a fucking idiot."

"Thanks, I guess."

"So you're living the grungy bachelorette lifestyle now."

I hate to admit it, but he's right. My apartment is a mess, basically just a workshop for fulfilling my Etsy soap and candle orders, and I seriously need to get to the grocery store. He's still a jerk, though. Not like he'd be doing any better in my shoes.

"Next time, I'll stock up in advance in case I take a strange, hungry man home from the bar," I say, scowling. Hunter opens the fridge, coming face-to-face with a package of cheese slices, a half-dozen expired eggs, wilted vegetables, and an array of crusty old condiment bottles.

"You do that often?" he asks, grabbing the cheese. He shuts the fridge door and spins around to the stove. "I need a skillet," he says, not waiting for my answer. I realize I've been staring at his broad shoulders under that tight t-shirt he's wearing. It annoys me. He's judging me and bossing me around in my own kitchen, and I can't keep my eyes off him?

Nice, Tess.

I dip past him, grabbing a skillet out of a bottom cupboard next to the fridge. When I find it, it's still wrapped up in brown packing paper from my move, along with most of my other pots and pans. Damn. It infuriates me that he's right. I am living like a slob.

"For your information," I say, poking the skillet's handle into Hunter's chest, "I don't do that often. And if you keep running your mouth, maybe I'll just take you back to that bar and let some other poor girl make the same mistake instead."

He puts the skillet on the stove, drops my last blob of butter into it, and turns on the heat. He grins as he spins the cellophane bread wrapper, removing the twist tie. "So you admit you're taking me home?" I feel his gaze dance down my body, and he makes no secret of ogling my breasts under my button-up shirt. I react almost automatically, my hand dancing up to twirl my hair. Why does a simple stare do this to me? My hormones always betray me at the worst possible time.

"Look," I say, retreating to my spot up against the chair. "I get that you're horny after spending eight years around a bunch of guys. But you don't just get to come back after eight years and pick up where you left off. People change. I'm in a different place now."

He's got four slices of bread in the buttered skillet now, and he evenly divides the cheese slices between the two sandwiches. Presumably one for him and one for me, but I wouldn't be that surprised if they both turn out to be for him.

"Yeah you are. You used to keep your kitchen at your parents' house spotless. You loved cooking. You wanted to open a restaurant."

I feel a little bit embarrassed. "I still do."

"But you've got fewer ingredients than a dorm room full of college kids. Where'd your passion go?"

Why is he so judgmental? "Well, Hunter, my life has been kind of a pile of shit lately, and fine cuisine had to take a back seat."

"Understatement." He fishes a half-empty jar of jalapeños out of the fridge, drains the juice, and arranges them on our sandwiches. Then he pokes around in the crisper drawer and finds a container of deli ham I didn't even remember I had.

"But I'm thinking about going to culinary school," I say.

"I'm making a pretty damn nice grilled cheese without fifty grand in student loans," he says, giving me an infuriating wink.

"Uh huh," I say. "And for your information, you're making melts. Not grilled cheese."

"What's the fucking difference? Looks like a couple of damn grilled cheeses to me."

"A melt has extra toppings. You turned them into melts when you added the jalepeños."

He laughs, using a spatula to finish the sandwiches with the top pieces of bread. "Alright, genius, you got me. But seriously, just fucking open a restaurant. You're an amazing cook. Fuck expensive school."

It's something I've considered, and it's not a half-bad idea, but I'm not going to give Hunter the satisfaction. I'm already annoyed with myself that it's been six months since the divorce and I haven't had the guts to just quit my stupid Etsy business and pursue what I love. "We'll see," I say. "Worry about you."

He takes the sandwiches off the stove, slices and plates them, and we sit down opposite one another at the table. He hands me my sandwich, and it's cut into four triangles just the way I like it. "Oh," I say, surprised that he'd remember something like that. "Thanks."

His gaze pierces me.

"You're welcome. But the only thing I'm worried about is getting inside that sweet body of yours."

My muscles tense up, and I feel blood rushing into my center. I should be disgusted and offended at the way he's talking to me, but my body responds to his words in a way that it never did to Roger's. Or anyone else's.

"You literally just saw me two hours ago, by complete accident."

"So?"

"So that's not enough time to think about anything like that."

He laughs out loud. "Do you know anything about men?"

"Apparently not," I say, taking a bite of my piping hot melt. "Mmm," I say, temporarily distracted from our conversation. The bread crunches deliciously, perfectly buttery, the cheese rich and stringy. "This is actually really good."

He grins, wolfing down his melt. "I know a thing or two about improvising."

How long has it been since a man cooked for me? A long time, much less since a man cooked something good for me.

"Look," I begin. I try to sound confident and in control, but my eyes can't stop wandering over Hunter's strong jaw and chiseled chest. Every time my eyes meet his playful gaze, I instinctively look down again. I'm afraid that he'll see right through me. I feel my nipples stiffening in my shirt, my breasts aching for his hands.

"Look," I repeat, flustered. "It's just… the wrong time. I'm still putting my life back together. And you seem to forget that you already left me once. So I'd appreciate if you could just be here for me as my friend and leave it at that."

He shoves the last corner of cheesy crust in his mouth. "You sure about that?"

The truth is, I'm not sure at all. "Yes," I say. "Let's not make things any more complicated than they already are."

But I can't help thinking, what's really complicated right now? I've been separated from Roger for a while now, and my love life is nonexistent. And Hunter is the hottest guy this town has seen since… probably ever. We're two adults home alone. He's leaving town before long. And I could probably do him without getting too mixed up in feelings. What happened between us was a long time ago.

But it's too dangerous a game. Even though it was eight years ago, I still remember the heartbreak of him leaving. Right now I don't want to risk setting myself back by going through something like that again.

"It's cool," he says, washing his hands. He uses high-concentrate dish detergent to scrub his hands instead of regular hand soap. It's a wonder the man has any skin left on his knuckles at all.

He turns off the water and dries his hands on a dirty hand towel hanging on the fridge handle. "Long as you don't bring any other men back while I'm here, I can live with that." He winks at me.

"You know," I say, "Not that I have any intention of doing that, but this is my apartment. Stop telling me what to do in my own place."

"Even if it's for your own good?"

Asshole. "Even if," I say. I pull my cellphone out of my back pocket and check the time. 2:03 a.m.

I brush past Hunter and drop my crumby plate in the sink. "My house, my rules," I say. "And according to me, it's bedtime."

"Okay, mom," he says, leaning up against the counter as I rinse the plates. "I need to grab a shower."

"Straight down the hall, and there are towels in the hall closet."

"Clean ones?"

Ugh. "Yes."

Hunter laughs and shakes his head, then strolls out of the tiny kitchenette and down the hall. I hear the closet click open and closed, and then the bathroom door thuds shut and the shower starts running.

I sigh, rubbing my temples. I can't help thinking about Hunter in my shower. Heat surges through me and I take a deep breath to calm myself down.

What are the odds of running into him, the very first night I go out, the very first night he comes back to town in eight years?

And why, again, did I bring him to my house? Somehow, I always manage to put myself in the exact opposite of the situation I should be in.

On top of everything, I have to ship a big batch of orders tomorrow, and I'm all out of shipping supplies. I need to make an early-morning run to Wal-Mart in Springville to stock up, and then get to work.

I rub my temples, listening to the faint pitter-patter of the shower, and as I do, the sound of a vibrating phone interrupts my thoughts. It comes from the couch. When I investigate, there's an old flip-style phone which must be Hunter's. He hates technology, and I bet the phone is the exact same one he had back in high school.

Curiosity gets the best of me. I check the message preview on the external screen. It's from a "Tasha," and the message preview starts:

Can't stop thinking about the time we fucked in the

Something inside my stomach burns a little bit, and I toss the phone back on the couch without opening it to read the rest of the message. So he's got other girls. So what. Not my business. As if that wasn't painfully obvious from a single glance at the man.

But I can't help that I hate the thought of him with another woman, even though I shouldn't.

A minute later, Hunter emerges from the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel wrapped tight around his waist. He has a shredded six pack and a smooth, strong chest. I catch myself biting my lower lip.

He looks exactly like he did that night eight years ago. Only stronger and even more ripped. The muscles beneath his skin look hard like stone, like they were sculpted from marble.

"You're staring," he says, grinning at me again. I blush, feeling blood rush into my cheeks, and I force my gaze down to the carpet.

"I'm getting ready for bed," I say, and I hurry past him to the bathroom with my head down. I expect to find the bathroom floor flooded from the shower, but it's actually perfectly dry, and his clothes are folded up in a neat stack.

Maybe he did learn something in the SEALs.

I brush my teeth, floss, and wash my face. When I return to the living room, Hunter is sitting on my couch in nothing but boxer briefs. He's leaning forward, reading the back cover of a romance book that was sitting on my coffee table, an Isabella Starling novel. His thighs bulge with muscle, and I can't help wondering what it'd feel like to have one of those thick, strong thighs pressed between my legs. My nipples harden under my loose-fitting t-shirt, and I hope that the fabric is dark enough that he won't be able to see.

I need to get a grip.

"You know, this couch is really small," he says. He lays back on it, his hard muscles flexing. He looks like a freaking model. But his legs hang off the edge of the couch by at least a foot, and suddenly I feel like a bad host. I told him he could stay with me, and now I can't even offer him a decent place to sleep.

"Sorry about that," I say. "You know what, I'll take the couch. You take the bed. I'll put fresh sheets on it."

He pivots to a sitting position and frowns. "I'm not putting you out of your own bed."

"It's fine," I say. "I just need to get to sleep."

He stands up, and I feel my breath go shallow as he gets closer to me. He puts a hand on my forearm, and it's like my lungs have suddenly shrunk inside my chest. "It's fine," he says, his eyes twinkling. "I'll take the floor."

"Excuse me?"

"Closest thing there is to a U.S. Government issued cot. Honestly, I don't know any other way to live anymore. I like it that way. Nice and hard."

I roll my eyes. "You're a weirdo."

"I mean, the bed would be better. But I doubt you'd be able to keep your hands off me."

"You're wrong," I reply.

"You know you miss the way we were together."

"You're delusional." I brush past him, my heart skipping a beat. I get fresh linens from the closet. I shove them in his chest. "Sweet dreams, asshole," I say.

He laughs and starts to spread the linens right in the middle of my living room floor.

I go to the bedroom, flip off the lights, and practically dive under the covers. I try to clear my mind, but I can't stop thinking about that man in the other room.

I don't know how I'm going to focus on anything with Hunter Thorne staying in my apartment.