20. Levi

I skim the instructions on the back of the pasta box, reading them again to make sure I didn't miss anything. I took a nap this afternoon specifically so I'd have the stamina to make dinner tonight. I'm not the best chef, but I've mastered a few of the basics.

Plus, I want to prove to myself that I'm making progress. That I can handle this. Thanks to my fancy new walking boot, I'm more than ready to start pulling my weight around here.

For weeks, Hunter and Greedy have been doing too much for me. It's time I show my appreciation.

I dump the pasta into the boiling water and set the timer. Then I check the veggies roasting in the oven. I hum mindlessly as I work, then abruptly stop when I remember I'm not the only one in the kitchen. Typically, I'd listen to music or watch sports highlights on my phone while doing something like this, but I don't want to disturb Hunter.

She's set up at the kitchen island, hair piled on top of her head and magically held together with a pen. I want to tease her about her weird habit of sticking pens in her hair, but this isn't the time.

When she's concentrating like this, it's best to leave her alone.

She's completely focused on the textbook on the island, tracking the words on the page with a finger while she takes notes.

She's so serious, almost mechanical, in the way she processes information.

Exams are this week, so it makes sense that she's stressed.

If only I could take away some of that tension and convince her not to worry so much about school. She's an excellent student, but she puts too much pressure on herself.

Taking twenty-one credits in a semester is crazy.

Humming again, I stir the pasta on the stove to ensure it doesn't glue together.

Hunter sighs behind me.

"You're working too hard, Daisy," I tease.

She looks up, blinking, as if she's only now realizing that I'm there.

Her answering scowl tells me I've interrupted. Again.

The little twinge of pain in my chest that blossoms each time she gives me a look like that is impossible to ignore. I'm not trying to be a nuisance, but she studies nonstop. Sometimes she holes up in her room all day long, and I only see her in passing in the hall when she's heading to class or coming home.

"You need to lighten up. The Hunter I knew was always up for a little fun."

She sighs and slumps over her textbook. "I don't have time for fun right now."

"Bullshit," I tell her, giving the pasta another quick stir. "The girl I used to know always had time for fun. She was the fun."

Before she can argue, I hobble over and peer down at her notebook. This walking boot is a major upgrade, but I'm still getting used to the new cadence of my stride. I'll wear the boot for two or three more weeks, and then I'll transition to walking again. I'm trying my hardest not to let my muscles atrophy while I recover.

All I do these days is go to rehab, work out with Greedy, and rest. Though I guess that's exactly what the doctor ordered.

With a glance over my shoulder, I check the time on the clock over the stove.

"Come on." I pull my phone from my pocket, pick a playlist, and hold out my hand. "Dance with me."

The song that floats on the air around us is a country song that was popular when we were in high school. It was one I listened to a lot that first year of college, when I was missing my friends and still trying to find my place out in California.

She tilts her head up and blows at a strand of blond hair that's escaped her writing-utensil-supported hairdo.

"It's finals week. I have to study."

I reach out slowly, giving her a chance to pull away.

Her eyes track my movement, but she doesn't pull back or try to stop me.

She remains still as I sweep the loose hair away from her forehead and tuck it behind her ear. A surge of pride fills my chest every time she lets me in like this.

"You can spare five minutes for a study break," I murmur.

She glances over my shoulder, then squints at me mischievously. "According to the timer, we've actually got six minutes."

Delight washes over me. "Six minutes? Sounds like the perfect amount of time for a dance with my girl."

Gaze softening, she closes her notebook and finally takes my outstretched hand.

She eases off the barstool and comes willingly when I guide her to the middle of the kitchen. With one hand on her low back, I steady myself. I'm not exactly light on my feet these days, but I'll fake it till I make it if it lightens her load or helps her loosen up.

Head tipped back, she cocks one brow. "Your girl, huh?"

"Yeah. If you're allowed to call me Dukey in public and go into detail about your favorite kinks with my mom's pastor, then I'm allowed to call you my girl."

She brings one hand to her chest, her mouth agape in mock outrage. "I did not reveal any of my favorite kinks to Pastor Tomlin."

"Semantics," I tell her.

Hunter shrugs, then offers me the first genuine smile she's cracked in more than an hour.

There she is.

It feels damn good to be the one to make her smile like that.

"You did make up a fake book club to get me out of church, though. Even if you took it about ten times further than necessary, I appreciate the hell out of you having my back."

Hunter quirks both brows at me this time. "It's cute you think smut brunch isn't a real thing."

"Wait." I scoff. "I thought you made that up."

"Smut brunch is a very real thing," she insists, her expression completely serious. "But you don't need to worry about being my DD. It's virtual."

"Virtual? What the hell does that mean?"

She grins. "We meet over Zoom. We make breakfast, pour ourselves a drink or six, then hang out online on Sunday mornings," she says, her green eyes alight. "We have members all over. Rachel is in Michigan. Angela's in Jersey. And Kym is in Louisiana. I even got Decker Crusade's new PR rep, Megan, to join us a few weeks ago. We may have scared her off with some of our somnophilia masked-men recs last time, but—"

I burst out laughing. "I don't understand half of the words that just came out of your mouth."

She smiles sweetly. "The only words you need to remember are these two: Smut and brunch."

"Smut brunch," I repeat. "And ‘smut' means…?"

Hunter snorts again, her pretty face screwing up as the very unladylike sound escapes her. She's clearly okay being herself around me. Her real self. And I like that a hell of a lot.

"Smut is synonymous with spicy romance books."

I open my mouth, ready to ask her to define spicy, but before I can, she clarifies.

"Spicy meaning books with a lot of sex. My smut brunch friends and I read it all. Dark romance. Small-town romance. Sports romance. The options are endless," she chirps, her whole face lit up. "We'll read just about any subgenre, as long as it ends in an HEA. That's the number one rule of smut brunch. Happily ever after or bust. We won't even consider it as our book of the week if it doesn't have an HEA."

"So it's like Fight Club?"

"Exactly. Only hornier."

I nod, but then falter. "Wait… did you say book of the week?"

"Yep."

"So you read, like, four or five books a month?" I surmise, feeling a little more confident in my swaying.

"Oh, Dukey. Bless your heart."

Dukeyisn't going to be a thing. But before I can nip that in the bud, she continues.

"I read four or five romance books a week," she declares, her chest puffing proudly and pressing against mine.

I squeeze her hand and pull it to my chest. "With what time?"

She shrugs. "I make the time. I always have my Kindle with me, and I listen to a lot of audiobooks."

With a shake of my head, I give her a teasing look. "You're crazy."

"I prefer to think of it as delightfully delusional," she says, smiling. But then her expression slips and her tone turns more serious. "And saying someone is crazy or insane is ableist. Mental health isn't a joke."

My stomach sinks, and I nearly trip over my walking boot, which is an impressive feat since I'm barely moving as it is.

"I—" I clear my throat. "I wasn't trying to insult you—"

"I know. No biggie. I used to say things like that, too. Know better and do better, ya know?" She pulls away and does a little spin move, and even when the song changes on my playlist, we keep dancing.

"Okay. So don't call anyone crazy or insane. All books must have a happy ending," I recite.

"Happily ever after," she clarifies. "And not all books. Just romance books. It's a genre requirement."

"And every Sunday you're busy—"

"And horny!" she singsongs.

"Because of smut brunch."

Her response is a wide grin.

"You're a fascinating creature, Hunter St. Clair."

With a tip of her chin, she hums. "I'll take that as a compliment."

"It was intended to be."

We're both quiet then, letting the music fill the space as we dance in the open kitchen. Although I guess we're not really dancing. It's more like swaying, with Hunter occasionally spinning around me while I stand in place.

Even when she leaves my personal space, I can't look away from her.

She's growing bolder as she moves. Loosening up. Letting her hair down—literally, because the pen she stuck through her bun is doing a piss-poor job of holding it together.

She twirls toward the fridge, then back to me again, making my heart rate pick up a little. She was a cheerleader in high school, but I didn't know her until the end of her senior year. The way she moves her body is mesmerizing. I could watch her all damn day.

"You've got the moves, Daisy."

Grinning, she places her palms on my chest. "Don't I know it. I worked at a nightclub in London for almost a year."

London.

That's where she went at the end of that summer. She doesn't talk much about her time in Europe, and I haven't dared to press the issue.

She doesn't talk about the in-between: Where she went. Where I helped her go.

But when her words register, my hands tighten into fists at my sides. It takes conscious effort to flex them and release the tension that's suddenly taken over. "You worked at a nightclub as a dancer?"

It's not exactly my business, but I still don't like it.

She shakes her head, lips pursed as she sways her hips. "I was a hostess, but I may have picked up a few moves from the girls in entertainment."

With a wicked smirk, she shows off one of those moves now, running both hands over my pecs and down my abdomen as she slinks down low, lower, damn.

All lucid thoughts leave my brain as I take her in. She's so low she's practically on her knees before me.

She sweeps her hands over my legs as she rises again. When she caresses my jean-clad thighs, my heart stutters. For weeks, I've had no sensation in my upper left leg, but there's no denying I can feel her touch. It's fucking incredible.

When she stands to her full height, I pull her into my arms. She comes willingly, easily. Then we're slow dancing once more. Her body molds against mine as she plays with the overgrown hair at my nape. Her heart is hammering in her chest from dancing, tapping out a rhythm that calls to mine.

Warmth spreads through me as we sway. Every time her skin brushes mine, a shock of electricity runs through me.

That's Hunter.

She's enigmatic. Electric.

Like this, so full of life, she's even more beautiful. I love knowing I can bring out this side of her.

But I hate that this isn't her default setting. She really is working too hard. I've gotta watch for that from now on.

In this moment, I make a promise to myself. I'll be the man who lightens her load. The person who pays attention. Notices when she needs a break. Gives her an excuse to let loose.

As the second song ends, I fully expect her to pull away.

But she doesn't. Instead, she wraps her arms around my shoulders and rests her cheek against my chest.

The energy coursing between us is as familiar as it is foreign. Suddenly, this feels like so much more than two friends dancing in the kitchen.

"You light up every room," I tell her, smoothing a hand up and down her back.

She tips her chin and locks eyes with me. The sincerity shining in hers hits me like an outside linebacker slamming into my chest.

Her tongue darts out and licks a trail across her lower lip.

Breath caught in my lungs, I track the movement and pull her even closer.

A sharp, high-pitched beep startles us both—the timer—and the spell is broken.

"Time's up," she tells me playfully, spinning out of my arms with one final twirl. "I'll go set the table."

I stare at her backside for so long the timer sounds again.