Page 9

Chapter Nine

Natalie

I drove here last night thinking that living with Hunter Brody was going to kill me.

Or him. It was honestly a toss-up.

Now, I'm blinking myself awake, staring at the unfamiliar ceiling, my body sinking into sheets. I inhale, exhale, roll onto my back, and then just… lay there.

Because why not?

The mountain view through windows hits different at dawn. It's all purple shadows and golden light that makes everything in this incredible bedroom feel even more surreal.

For a solid three seconds, I let myself sink into the absurd reality of my life.

I am living in Coach Hunter Brody’s mountain-sized house.

I am sleeping in his guest bed, wrapped in sheets that cost more than my entire disaster-zone apartment.

And I have zero regrets about it.

Regretfully, I drag myself out of bed, following the scent of coffee like a zombie seeking brains. My hair's a disaster, my borrowed t-shirt hits mid-thigh, and I'm not prepared for what waits in the kitchen.

Hunter Brody. In sweatpants and nothing else, standing in front of the stove, flipping eggs like he’s trying out for MasterChef: Alpha Male Edition .

My brain short-circuits at the sight of all that muscle on display. The man's built like a Greek god who decided to moonlight as a chef.

"What the hell is going on?" I squint at him.

Hunter barely spares me a glance, abs flexing as he reaches for a plate. "You're in my kitchen."

My mouth works, but no words come out. Because how is his body even real? Even his abs have abs.

He slaps a coffee mug onto the counter and slides it toward me like he's dealing cards. "Drink. Function."

I clear my throat, forcing my gaze anywhere but the ridges of his stomach.

"You could've warned me about the whole..." I wave vaguely at his chest. "…shirtless breakfast situation."

Hunter flips another egg. "Forgive me for not rolling out a damn red carpet for you."

I frown and wrap my hands around the warmth of the mug. "Are you always like this in the morning, or am I getting a special brand of grump today?"

"Less talking. More drinking."

I sigh, roll my eyes and take a sip…

Then nearly choke to death.

I splutter as it burns all the way down. "Jesus. Did you make this with jet fuel?"

He drinks from his own mug like it's water. "Stronger the better."

"Oh my God. At least it explains why you're always twitching."

I mutter into my cup, watching him flip eggs that look delicious despite the irritated frown overlooking them. He keeps loading everything onto the plates as I battle my way through this mug of pure terror.

Hunter sets a plate in front of me, and I can't help but stare. My stomach growls in betrayal.

The eggs gleam with perfect, runny yolks. The bacon curls at just the right angles. Even the tomatoes look like they belong in a food magazine.

I grab my fork and dig in, the first bite melting on my tongue. "Okay, this is unfair."

Hunter leans against the counter, arms crossed over his bare chest. "What's unfair?"

"You can't be good at everything. It violates some universal law."

His eyes narrow as he scans the kitchen, zeroing in on my stuff scattered around like confetti after a party. "What it doesn't explain is why you're taking over my house."

I shovel another perfect bite of fried egg into my mouth and blink up at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

He snatches a pink scrunchie off the counter and dangles it between us. "What the hell is this?"

"A tax for letting me live here…?"

"That's not how taxes work." He grabs my favorite hoodie from where I'd artfully draped it over the chair last night at dinner. "And this?"

I reach for it with grabby hands. "Oh, thanks. I was looking for that this morning."

He holds it just out of reach, his jaw ticking. "It's been here since last night."

"And I've been looking for it since then." I pop the last bite of bacon in my mouth, savoring the crunch. "You know, your cooking almost makes up for your morning personality."

"My morning personality is fine."

I nearly choke on my coffee again. "Sure it is."

Hunter sighs, drags his hand down his face like he's trying to wipe away his own words. "You need a ride to work?"

I blink at him, certain I've misheard. Or maybe the jet fuel coffee has finally melted my brain.

"You'd offer to be in an enclosed space with me for more than five minutes?"

His jaw ticks as he stares at the ceiling. "I regret it already. But yes. Do you want a ride or not?"

I've got my own car. But saving on gas might help the incoming repair bills that are certain to drain my savings account any day now.

"Thank you. No take-backs, though." I hop off the stool, already planning my escape before he changes his mind. "Give me fifteen minutes to get ready."

"Ten."

"Twenty, got it." I dash toward the stairs, calling over my shoulder. "And put a shirt on, Coach. Your abs are distracting."

A string of creative curses follows me up the stairs, and I grin all the way to the guest bathroom. The heated floors warm my feet as I dig through my overnight bag for something professional enough for work.

I settle on a fitted black sweater and my favorite jeans—the ones I know make my ass look fantastic. Hunter might have his 'no touching' rule, but that doesn’t mean I can’t remind him exactly what he’s missing.

Twenty-two minutes later, because I'm nothing if not consistent in my inability to be on time, I bounce down the stairs to find Hunter waiting by the door.

He's wearing a crisp white button-down that does nothing to hide the muscles underneath, and suddenly I regret suggesting he put on a shirt at all.

His eyes do a full-body sweep before locking onto mine. "You're late."

"I'm fashionably on time." I wink and adjust the bag on my shoulder. "Ready when you are, Coach."

I follow Hunter outside, squinting as brilliant morning sunshine spills across his driveway. The mist still rolls off the peaks, wrapping his mountain estate in an fairytale-esque glow that belongs in some romantic movie scene.

Then I stop dead, my coffee nearly sloshing out of my travel mug as the garage door rolls open.

"Hunter - no way." My jaw drops at the gleaming Ferrari tucked safely inside, its cherry-red paint job practically glowing in the early light. "How have I not been blinded by this at the arena?"

Hunter's lips curl into that infuriating smirk as he clicks the key fob. "Probably because I've got under cover parking."

I roll my eyes. Again.

I feel like that's all I've done since I've walked into Richie Rich's world last night.

"Of course you do."

Hunter grins and steps around to hold the door open for me. I mutter to myself, sliding into soft leather seats that feel like a giant cuddly teddy bear. The new car smell mingles with Hunter's cologne, and it's a dangerous fucking concoction that has my nipples suddenly paying attention.

"Jealous?" His smirk widens as he watches me take in the pristine interior.

"Absolutely not." I click my seatbelt, eyeing the way his hands curl around the steering wheel. "You drive like a serial killer, don't you?"

"Buckle up, princess." He shifts into gear, the engine purring to life.

We wind down the mountain road, trees blurring past as Hunter takes the curves with more speed than I care for.

The sun catches on the chrome and glass, making the whole world sparkle as we race by. Below, Iron Ridge spreads out like a postcard, the arena's dome rising above the skyline like a crown.

For a moment, suspended between mountain and valley in this ridiculous car with this impossible man, I feel like I'm living someone else's dream. I sink deeper into the Ferrari's leather seats, trying not to hyperventilate at how surreal this all feels.

Here I am, a small-town physical therapist, home grown and damn proud of that, riding shotgun in a car that's probably been paid for with cold hard cash.

My cramped apartment with its leaky ceiling and ancient radiator feels like it belongs in a different universe. One where I shop clearance sales and calculate if I can splurge on name-brand coffee.

I sneak a glance at Hunter, all controlled power behind the wheel. Even his presence feels larger than life - like everything else in his world.

The worst part? Instead of being intimidated, something in my chest flutters with excitement. I'm either incredibly brave or monumentally stupid for stepping into his world.

Probably both.

And somehow, I know this is only the beginning of the trouble I’ve just signed up for.

***

After a day of dodging questions about my sleeping arrangements with Lucy and Sophia, and checking on my flooded apartment on the way home, which, by the way, is still a disaster, I push open Hunter's front door, expecting to find him hunched over game tapes or statistics.

Instead, the aroma hits me like a linebacker - garlic, herbs, and something rich that makes my mouth water instantly.

I follow my nose to the kitchen, where I find Hunter Brody stirring something that smells like heaven.

His sleeves are rolled up, shoulders flexing as he flips a perfectly golden stuffed chicken breast in a pan. A bottle of red breathes on the counter, next to a cutting board piled with fresh herbs. A pan of asparagus rests beside it, glistening with olive oil and just the right amount of char.

I cross my arms and lean against the doorway, watching him.

"Are you sure you’re not actually a chef pretending to be a hockey coach?"

Hunter doesn’t even look up as he plates the chicken, pouring a drizzle of some kind of ridiculous sauce over it with precise, practiced movements.

"Cooking keeps me sane."

I push off the doorframe and wander closer, inhaling the rich scent.

"And yet… still so grumpy." I glance at him, watching the muscle in his jaw flex. "What was with you today?"

I think back to practice at the arena earlier today.

Hunter was a different person on the ice when I went down after lunch. Red-faced, veins popping in his neck as he screamed at Logan for missing a pass.

Even Blake looked shell-shocked at the intensity.

There’s a long beat before he answers. "Nothing."

Liar.

I don’t press. Instead, I slide onto one of the barstools, watching as he places a plate in front of me. The food looks like something out of a Michelin-starred restaurant, the kind of meal people take photos of before eating.

I stab into the chicken, and the second it hits my tongue, my eyes flutter shut.

"Okay," I say, pointing my fork at him. "This is starting to piss me off."

Hunter finally looks at me, amused. "What now?"

"I said it this morning, and I'm gonna say it again. You can’t be this good at everything ."

He smirks, grabbing his own plate and settling in across from me. "Fine. I’m shit at pottery. Happy now?"

I nearly choke on my bite. "Oh my God. Do not tell me you’ve taken a pottery class."

Hunter just shrugs and sits down beside me.

Silence settles as we start eating, but not the kind that’s uncomfortable. The wine flows, our forks scrape against plates and we talk about our day at The Nest.

It's all very… normal.

By the time I'm finished my chicken, my wine glass is nearly empty. I reach for the bottle without thinking, and Hunter's hand moves at the same moment.

Our fingers brush. Just a whisper of contact. But it's enough.

Enough to send electricity shooting up my arm. Enough for his breathing to stop. Enough for my body to spin into a frenzy with excitement and adrenaline I haven't felt since the steam room incident when I last had his strong, beautiful hands on me.

"Sorry."

Hunter goes completely still, then grabs the bottle. "Here. Let me."

I can see his chest rise and fall with each careful breath, the way his jaw clenches. His eyes lock onto mine, and the intensity in that steel-gray gaze makes my stomach squeeze tight .

I can't look away. Can't move.

Hunter's hand is steady as he pours, but I can see his forearm tensing. The wine splashes dark and rich into my glass and the enormous kitchen suddenly feels too small.

My skin prickles with awareness of how close we are, how easy it would be to reach out and trace that vein running up his forearm.

God, I want him.

Strong, demanding. He's everything I need. He knows exactly where to touch me.

My body remembers every moment, every kiss, every growl against my neck.

But his rules echo in my head like a broken record.

No flirting.

No touching.

No lingering.

I grip my wine glass tighter, trying to pull myself together. The stem feels fragile between my fingers, like it might snap at any second.

Then, like a lifeline for us both to cling to, his phone buzzes against the granite countertop, shattering the moment.

Blake's name flashes across the screen.

"Shit. I gotta take this." Hunter's voice comes out rough, like he's been holding his breath.

Right. The playoffs. Vancouver.

The reason he's been drilling the team so hard all week. The reason he's been cooking elaborate meals and obsessing over every detail.

The reason we can't be… anything.

I watch him grab his phone, his shoulders squaring as he shifts back into coach mode. He won't meet my eyes now, won't even glance in my direction as he answers.

"Blake. Yeah, what's up?" He stands, pacing toward the window. "No. I told you already. We need to adjust the power play."

The sound of his voice talking strategy, all business and authority, sends the excitement in my veins racing back where it belongs.

Buried. Somewhere deep. Somewhere dark.

Somewhere where we're not allowed to talk about what the hell this is going on between us.

But sitting here in his kitchen, wine glass in hand, the remnants of dinner shared between us…

It brings it all back.

He's Coach Brody. The man who turned the Icehawks from underdogs into playoff contenders.

And me…

I'm just the team physiotherapist who can't seem to stop wanting him.