8. Hunter

Playlist: Red Wine Supernova | Chappell Roan

Giovanna Quinn has somehow proven to me that she can further ruin my life. Who does she think she is, letting her floral scent linger in her home long after she left for work?

And worse still, introducing me to historical romances?

She was right, dammit. The Viscount Who Loves Me is as good as Bridgerton Season 2, if not better. I have three batches of images from a wedding this weekend to edit. But I’ve been hanging out pants-less in the living room while I kick my feet and squeal at Kate and Anthony’s banter.

I hope my client, a bride claiming to be Paris Hilton’s third cousin, understands why her photos are late.

The room grows quiet as the current Taylor Swift album comes to an end, the final notes echoing in the room. This time, I don’t get back up to start it again, or put on another record.

Because right now, it’s getting juicy .

I’m on my stomach on the couch, and slide my hand under my belly, tracing the waistband of my cotton thong with my fingertips. My vibrator is in my room, and I could easily move there…but I don’t want to. I want to use my fingers and imagine that Jo’s touching me the way this viscount is touching his wife.

So I do.

I slip my fingers beneath the fabric and shiver as my thumb grazes my clit. Has Jo done this very same thing while reading a scene like this? Maybe this exact book, on this very couch?

The thought makes me squeeze my thighs together, trapping my hand between them as my hips rock. I grind my center against my hand, chasing shamelessly after my high. And just as I think I’ve found it, the apartment door opens.

I throw the book towards the kitchen with all my might as I spring to my feet, meeting Jo’s tired eyes.

“I asked you not to be violent with my books,” she sighs, shutting the door behind me.

“Oh, Jo, I’m so sorry. You just scared me and why are you looking at me like that?”

Her eyes are wide, and she finally blinks when she realizes I’m addressing her. “Where the hell are your pants?”

“Uh,” I respond, all intelligence gone. “Didn’t wear any today. Since I was home alone.” I peer at the microwave in the kitchen. “Wait, you’re home early. I thought you got off at five?” Why is she home two and a half hours earlier than usual?

“Feeling sick,” Jo mutters, avoiding my gaze as she shuffles into the kitchen. She pulls a granola bar out from the pantry and rips the wrapper with her teeth.

I swallow. “Oh. I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

“No,” Jo answers, peering at me out of the corner of her eye as she chews. “Well. Maybe put on some pants.”

And then Giovanna Quinn blushes, and I want to burn every pair of pants I own.

“I can do that. Do I need to put on a bra too?”

Her gaze immediately falls to my chest.

Mission accomplished.

Am I a bad person for trying to seduce her while she’s not feeling well?

Maybe I should go back to church.

“I mean—” Jo wheezes, and I bite my lip. “A bra might be breast—best.”

This is every dream I never knew I had come true.

I salute her. “Aye aye, captain. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Or did that. It seemed like a good idea at the time.” I awkwardly start shuffling backwards to my bedroom.

“Okay,” Jo says weakly as she leans against the counter. “Whatever you say, honey.”

Did she call me honey ?

That certainly doesn’t help the ache between my thighs right now.

I make an unintelligible squeaking noise and push my bedroom door open, quickly closing it behind me. I walk to my bedside table, grabbing my pink rabbit vibrator out of the drawer before climbing onto my bed, spreading my legs, and moaning as I push the toy inside me. I turn my head and clench my pillow between my teeth as the ears vibrate against my clit, slowly moving the shaft inside me so it rubs against my g-spot.

I can be quiet. Giovanna’s right out there and—

Giovanna .

She’s so pretty—so fucking pretty—and I want to remember what she tastes like…everywhere. I want to know what kind of marks those long nails of hers would leave on my skin, what noises she could coax out of me.

What noises I could coax out of her .

My release is blessedly muffled by the pillow, like I’d hoped. But once I come down, I don’t move, staring at the ceiling as my chest heaves, an all-too-familiar feeling of shame washing over me like a wave.

What the fuck is wrong with me? No, what the fuck is wrong with her ? What is it about her that has me so undone? This isn’t my fault. This is all—

“Hun?” Jo’s voice is muffled through the door and I jackknife into a sitting position.

“Y-yeah?” I stammer, face burning red.

“I didn’t mean you couldn’t come out.” Her voice is shaky, and I frown, unable to stop myself from worrying about her.

I cope with my worry the way I know best—by covering it with humor. “I already came out, thanks.”

She’s silent for a beat before exhaling deeply. “That’s a good joke.”

“Thank you,” I beam, pleased as punch at her affirmation.

“Would you mind coming out again? Of the room that is. Unless you want to disclose your sexuality to me, which you don’t have to. It’s totally personal and none of my business—”

In the fifty-thousand years it takes her to ramble, I’m able to climb out of bed, pull on a pair of yoga pants, and stride across the room. She stops short when I open the door.

“Oh,” she says, blinking at me in surprise.

“Easy as pie,” I tell her. “Also I identify as bisexual, with a preference for pretty girls.”

I watch her bite that pillowy, pink lip between her teeth, in an attempt to stifle the quiet laugh that escapes anyway.

This one? Worth at least a dime.

“I’m a lesbian,” Jo says.

I smile softly. “It must feel cathartic to say that out loud, huh?” I wonder if she knows what I mean. If she knows that I play back her telling me how broken and wrong she feels for her attraction to girls. How she prayed that she would wake up and think boys were cute the way her sisters and friends did.

She meets my gaze, her brown eyes flecked with green and gold immediately hypnotizing me. “Yeah. It feels good to be okay with myself.”

I attempt to swallow the lump in my throat, but the mass of emotion on my chest makes it impossible. “I’m glad, Giovanna.”

“When did you come out?” she asks, averting her gaze. “You don’t have to tell me, actually. I shouldn’t have asked—”

Before I can stop myself, I reach out to her, taking her soft hand in mine and squeezing gently. “It’s a long, kind of emotional story. Not one that I’m adverse to telling you, just not right now. Is that okay?”

Giovanna nods. “I—yeah. Of course. I’m sorry. I got distracted. I actually wanted to ask you to come out—” I open my mouth to make another goofy joke. “Of your bedroom,” she says pointedly, arching a perfect brow at me.

The Italian gods blessed this woman with such annoyingly expressive and full eyebrows.

“I wanted to ask you to come out of your bedroom so that I could talk to you about some stuff having to do with my diabetes,” she continues.

I hope she can’t tell I’m lusting over her eyebrows. Her eyebrows . I’m pathetic as hell.

“I realized I never gave you the ‘my roommate’s a Type One Diabetic’ orientation.”

At this moment, it occurs to me that my rabbit is in plain sight, and the smell of my arousal is likely lingering in the air.

“That sounds amazing!” I exclaim loudly, taking a step forward and causing Jo to stagger back as I pull the door closed behind. “I’d love to know everything about your diabetes!”

Giovanna eyes me suspiciously. “Okay?”

“I just have to go pee real fast.”

“Sure,” she mumbles in response, turning away and shuffling towards the living room. I quickly pop into the bathroom and close the door behind me before sitting on the closed toilet.

I inhale shakily. What the fuck is wrong with me? What is it about this woman that has me so unable to control myself and my desires? She’s all I can think about, all I want to think about right now.

Maybe I need to go to therapy more often. Or to go back to church. Repent of the sin of being way too attracted to Giovanna Quinn. It has to be a venial sin, at least.

After I pee and clean myself up a little, I wash my hands and that unwelcome wave of shame crashes over me again. Like the waves in the ocean, when you think it’s gone, there’s always another one to follow.

She can never know what I think about her. How much I want to touch and taste her again. She’d be disgusted by me. Just because she likes women doesn’t mean she likes me, and she’s still healing from a traumatic breakup. Who the hell am I to come in and have any impact on that?

“Okay, I’m ready for Type 1 Diabetes 101, professor,” I announce in a forcefully cheerful tone as I enter the living room.

Jo is sitting cross-legged on the couch as she scrolls on her phone. She looks up at me and smiles gently, patting the couch next to her.

Why is her motioning for me to sit next to her giving me goosebumps? I need to move out. Or cease to exist.

Whichever affects my credit score the least.

I walk to the couch and sit next to Jo, keeping my eyes on my thighs as they expand against the cushion.

“Okay, so,” she says, not reacting to my anxiety. “This is my omnipod, which gives me my insulin. I used to have a pump with tubing, but this is what I use now.” She untucks her blouse and lifts it just enough to show a sliver of her smooth skin and a rectangular device on her lower belly.

“Whoa, you’re a robot.”

“Yup, machinery keeps me alive. How much do you know about diabetes?”

I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I should have done research on my own time. It wouldn’t have been hard, but I didn’t, and I feel like I should have. “Not a lot, just what you told me that summer.”

“What do you remember?” she asks.

I think about it. “You have to test your blood sugar levels, and they affect how much insulin you need.”

“Exactly. I used to have to test my blood sugar by doing finger pricks, but the machines win again, because now I have this bad boy.”

Jo pulls off her suit jacket, and points to a device on her upper arm. “This is a CGM—continuous glucose monitor—and it does exactly what the name says: continuously monitors my glucose. It serves the same function as the finger pricks, and I can look at my levels on my phone. It’s so much better. Also, there’s an emergency medication called glucagon that I keep on hand. I’ll show you where I keep it, in case I don’t wake up.” She shoots finger guns at me, like she didn’t just hint at her mortality. “It’s the same premise of an epi-pen, but diabetics use it to inject glucagon…”

“Glucagon?” I interrupt, brow furrowed.

“It’s sort of like a liquid sugar that will quickly bring up my blood glucose in the case of severe lows.”

“No.” I pause for a moment. “Yes. Does your pod automatically deliver insulin?”

“Sort of. I have to input the carbs I’ve eaten for it to work.” She pulls out a device that looks like a little phone out of her pocket.

“This is my PDM—personal diabetes monitor. If my pod falls off, or isn’t properly attached, then I have to administer manually, and I use my PDM to do that. But it lets me know when that happens, there’s an alarm that goes off when it thinks it isn’t working the way it’s supposed to.

“So you take insulin when your blood sugar is low?” I ask, trying to keep track of everything she’s telling me.

She shakes her head. “No, I’d take it when it’s high, or when I’m eating something high in carbs.”

Damn , that’s a lot. Nick Jonas never mentioned that in his Disney Channel PSA.

“If my blood sugar gets too high, and my pod isn’t working,” Giovanna continues, “or I don’t have enough insulin on hand, that can be an emergency, but it’s not a daily worry.”

“How do you know if you’re low?”

“There’s an alert that my phone plays when my CGM senses a low, but I usually feel it first. I feel achy and tired, and I shake a ton,” she tells me, and I notice she looks uncomfortable when she says this.

I nod. “Noted. What helps when you have low blood sugar?”

“Fast acting carbs. I keep little bottles of honey around, you may have noticed them.” She digs in her leather tote bag and pulls out the most adorable little honey bear.

I squeal. “That’s adorable !”

“Adorable and functional,” she answers. “It’s an easy way to get those carbs, so I always keep some in my office at work, at Nic and Josh’s, in the bathroom, in my bedside table…”

“You’re more prepared than a Boy Scout,” I tease.

She smiles cautiously. It’s strange how I feel like I can label her smiles now. There’s this one, the cautious one, where her smile is crooked and unsure. It’s a polite smile, a smile that fulfills social expectations more than reflects joy. “Gotta be. It sucks but…” she inhales shakily. “This kind of runs my life. I know it inconveniences and impacts the people around me. I try to handle it on my own as much as possible so it isn’t inconvenient for you…”

“Inconvenient for me ?” I interrupt her before I can remind myself people don’t like when you do that. “None of this is . I want to understand it better so that I can be more supportive. As a roommate.”

Gosh, if only we were the type of “roommates” that women throughout history were. The “roommates” who exchanged lusty, longing, lyrical correspondence. The “roommates” who were only really roommates because historians decades later decided so.

But we’re just roommates. And that’s all we’ll ever be.

Jo shifts, her shirt riding up a bit and my gaze is immediately pulled to the soft roundness of her stomach.

Sure, we’ll only ever be roommates, but it doesn’t hurt to look.

“I’m not ignorant, Hun. I know that it’s inconvenient for other people,” she says.

I stare at her, mouth gaping like a fish. I know my ADHD impacts her, but she would never allow me to say this stuff to her.

“Who made you feel like this?” I ask curtly, balling my hands into fists. I’m ready to fight whoever made Jo Quinn feel like less than the fucking treasure she is.

Her brow furrows as she looks up from examining her nails. “Huh?”

“Who made you feel like an inconvenience?”

“No one. I just am.”

“Your ex-fiancée?” Her eyes dart to the floor and I know I’ve found the answer. “I hate her.”

“You don’t know her.”

“I know you. And that’s enough to know I hate her.”

“Okay, I think that’s all you need to know. About diabetes. For now,” she says shortly as she stands.

“I’m sorry, I think you deserve–”

Jo cuts me off with a deep sigh, running a hand through her hand and pulling at her roots in frustration. I know she’s had a hard day, and it’s not my business, but I hate that she’s been made to feel like her body is a burden on the people around her. Especially the people she loved. Maybe still loves.

“I can’t do this today, Hunter.”

“Sorry,” I say in a small voice. “You’re right, it’s not—”

“I’m going to my room. If you’re going to read my books, please don’t throw it.” She turns and walks to her room, avoiding my gaze the whole way.