17. Hunter

Chapter 17

Hunter

then

I pace out of my bedroom and into the small living area. With a weary sigh, I flop down on the couch and stare listlessly at my Kindle.

I'm restless and exhausted, but also brimming with energy.

Alone once again, I'm at a loss for how to entertain myself, an issue that's been happening more and more often.

When Louie and I started working at Splice, we got to train together and work together every day.

Since we settled into our places there, though, we've been working opposite shifts more often than not. Our days off don't align, and even when they do, Louie is a much bigger partier than I am.

The girl doesn't stop. Even after she gets off her shift at Splice, she'll venture out to after-hours clubs. Half the time she doesn't come home at all.

In the last few weeks, she's been bringing guests home with her more frequently. I'm grateful we at least have separate bedrooms .

Still restless, I heave myself up and meander back to my own room. It's still pretty bare, which is intentional. What's the point of adding personal touches? I have no idea how long I'll be here. I can't even bring myself to read a new book. I just keep going back to my comfort reads, but even those aren't holding my attention lately.

I stopped by Waterstones in Piccadilly Circus last week. It was trippy to see the alternate UK covers. I found a few of my favorites on the shelves, and I went as far as to stack them up and carry them around for a bit before abandoning the haul on an end cap and leaving the store empty-handed.

It's not about the money. I have Dr. Ferguson's AmEx, and I'm making great use of it out of spite toward my mother.

I just have no idea how long I'll be here or where I'll go next. The lease on our flat will be up in December.

After that, Louie has every intention of heading back to North Carolina and starting the winter semester at LCU.

Me, on the other hand?

I can't imagine going back.

Though I can't imagine staying here by myself either.

I plop down on the edge of the bed and pull open the nightstand drawer.

Heart aching, I lift my pink phone out of its hiding place and cradle it in my palm.

I haven't powered it on in over a week.

It's only got a small amount of battery left, and I swear, the battery drains faster here in Europe.

With a fingernail, I trace the outline of the power button.

As my breathing speeds up, I stop and clutch it as hard as I can.

I can't bring myself to turn it on. It hurts too much. It all feels too deep. What's waiting for me in the form of desperate messages won't make me feel better. If anything, hearing his voice, witnessing his longing, listening to his pleas for me to come home, will just make the wounds I'm trying to ignore fester further .

Choking back a sob, I put the device in the back of my drawer. Then I pull out my new phone.

I need a distraction to pull myself out of this funk. Maybe Louie will want to go out after work.

With her contact pulled up, I hover my thumb over the keypad, then stop myself from typing out a message. Honestly, I don't think I can wait that long.

I scroll through my very few contacts and home in on one name in particular.

Spence gave me his number last week.

Or rather, he told Angelo to save his number in my phone.

It didn't seem peculiar at the time, but when I asked Louie about it, her eyes grew wide with shock—and maybe a smidge of jealousy.

"Wait, wait, wait. Kabir Spencer, the owner of Splice, the richest man under thirty in the United Kingdom, gave you his number?"

"I guess?" I said, my face heating. "He had Angelo put it in my phone."

"Hunt, be real." She rolled her eyes like she thought I was clueless. Maybe I was. "You work for him. If he wanted access to your number, he already has it. He gave you his number because he wants you, full stop."

She's right. He has my number. I spent a week wondering if he would call before it hit me: he's waiting for me to make the first move.

Tonight, my listlessness makes me bold.

I open up a new text thread and find his contact information.

Angelo added him under Spence , a casual moniker that I've discovered only a select few members of the staff are allowed to use.

I type out a text and hit Send before I lose my courage.

Hunter: Let's say you were to sell the club. How much do you think you can get for it?