Page 36 of Boyfriend of the Hour

Hunt didn’t react to the exchange, but his dark eyes still followed me as I dropped the money into the tip jar behind the counter.

“Do you want your Macallan?” I asked him before helping several others waiting for drinks.

He shook his head. “No, help them first.”

So he wanted to wait. Well, I had no problem with that.

Which he did. But not without quietly narrating the recipes for cosmopolitans, old-fashioneds, a mojito, a sidecar, and a lemon drop.

It was like having Siri talk me through a bartending class, if Siri looked like a movie star and spoke like a voice actor. I would have been annoyed if it hadn’t been so helpful.

“How do you know all those drinks?” I asked once I was through the line and finally able to pour his whiskey.

Hunt accepted the brown liquid and swirled it under his nose. He took a small sip and set it back on the coaster. “My mother enjoys cocktails. We all learned the basics when we were children.”

He didn’t elaborate on who “we” were, and to my surprise, I found I wanted to know. Just like I wanted to know what kind of mother asked her children to mix her drinks regularly enough that they would memorize a textbook’s worth of mixology.

I didn’t ask, though, because I was also irritated that he piqued my interest in the first place.

And I did not want to be interested in anything about Nathan Hunt. Not at all.

“I’m surprised you wanted to show yourself in here,” I said while I took advantage of the lull in orders to wipe down the bar top. “Lower yourself to interact with an exotic dancer like myself.”

Dr. Hunt blinked. “Did something change in the last week?”

God. Not him too.

“Not a thing,” I lied with a fake, fake smile. “I’m walking on sunshine, can’t you tell? It’s always been my life’s dream to show my tits to horny men.”

Hunt looked confused. “I assume you’re being sarcastic.”

I huffed. He waited.

Fuck it. He already knew I was a mess, and I wasn’t hiding anything. “This is just the face of someone who is running out of options.”

I waited for him to ask me why. Drummed my fingers on the bar, tapped my toes on the ground, chewed my lower lip in anticipation of the next cutting remark where he would tell me I was an idiot or critique my increasingly inevitable career path.

I waited for his gaze to shift too. To drift down my body, openly eye my breasts, hips, legs, and everything else like a vulture ready to land on its carrion. I’d seen it too many times when other men learned I was a dancer and thought it meant the exotic variety. Once you crossed into that field, a certain—and large—portion of the world thought that meant every part of you was up for grabs.

But Hunt’s gaze remained squarely on my face, pensive and unmoving. As solid as the building we were in. He stared, and I found myself staring back, the two of us caught in a tunnel of our own making. One that finally seemed to quiet all the noise that was constantly in my head. One that made my hands and feet still and my breathing come easier.

Then he pulled something out of his pocket.

“I stopped by to bring you something,” he said as he set a package on the bar top.

“A present?” I joked, though something inside me squeezed. Why, I couldn’t say. I didn’t wantanythingfrom Nathan Hunt, much less a gift.

“Not really.”

I opened the padded manila envelope and drew out a folded sheet of paper and then a familiar garment: the emerald green bra I’d misplaced five days ago in his schmancy old building. “Where did you get this?”

Hunt tilted his head. “I found it.”

“In your building? Oh myGod, it was probably hanging off my clothes or something, wasn’t it?” I slapped a hand to my face, imagining myself striding through that gilded lobby with my underwear hanging out from under my shirt.

He didn’t correct me. Christ, that walk of shame went even worse than I had even realized.

“What is this?” I demanded as I shoved the bra back into the packet, then set it under the bar to grab later. “Some kindof messed up game? You don’t have to show me the error of my ways, Dr. Hunt. I’m fully aware I’m a slutty bartender without common sense or any brains. My family, my boss, my friends—they tell me that all the time, so I definitely don’t need some stuck-up doctor to point it out on a daily basis.”