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HUNTER

I wasn’t planning to come here tonight.

And I sure as hell didn’t come to see her.

That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway.

But then she walked up to the table—pad in hand, eyes tired, hair pulled back like she was barely holding it together—and everything I’d been telling myself?

Right out the damn window.

“Who is she?” Ty asks as our server turns away to put in the drink order.

“You don’t have the best memory from high school, do you?”

“Dude,” he scoffs. “You know that was my party phase.”

I chuckle, but I can’t take my eyes off her.

Faith Easton.

She’s wearing loose jeans and a chambray shirt, same as the other servers, but somehow it all fits her different. Like her body didn’t get the memo she was supposed to fade into the background. And yeah, I notice her ass. I’m a man, not a monk.

But that’s not why I remember her.

Okay—maybe it’s part of it. She did have a great one back in high school too. But what I really remember is that question she asked at Bible camp. She must’ve been fourteen, braces and all, still tripping over her words around guys. But when she raised her hand and asked our counselor, point blank, Why would God let bad things happen to innocent people? —everything stopped.

It wasn’t rebellious. It wasn’t performative.

It was real.

And I remember thinking: Who is this girl?

Back then, I was fifteen, at Bible camp because my mom insisted. But that question stuck with me—and so did Faith.

Despite my jock status—the whole town’s football prodigy—I never quite had the guts to talk to her. She was in honors classes, head always buried in a book. I was barely passing the basic curriculum and trying to act like I didn’t care.

She intimidated the hell out of me.

Still does, apparently.

Because when she came over just now, I was so dumbstruck I couldn’t even say a word.

I’d rather let her think I’m the strong, silent type than confirm I’m still the dumb jock with a one-track mind.

She moves through the restaurant like she’s on autopilot, but I see it—that tension in her shoulders, the way she keeps biting the inside of her cheek. Something’s off. She’s unraveling a little, and I don’t know why, but I feel it in my chest like a warning bell.

Her blonde ponytail bounces as she turns the corner, a few strands slipping free to frame her face. Those eyes—bright, cerulean blue—have no business being trapped in a town like Vansborough. She's ocean-wild. Bigger than this place.

And here I am, sitting here like some idiot quarterback, pretending I don’t care.

“To you? She’s no one,” I say finally.

Ty snorts. “The fuck you talking about?”

“She’s an Easton.” I flick my fingers toward the kitchen like that explains everything.

Ty’s eyebrows shoot up. “Shit. You serious?”

I sigh. God love him, but Ty can be a little daft sometimes.

And yeah—I’m a dumb jock who uses the word daft . I even did some of the reading in college. Sue me. I liked the ones with a little philosophy. Something about the way questions pull things apart before they put them back together.

If I ever did speak to Faith Easton— really speak to her—I’d want her to know I’m more than just a spiral and a stat sheet.

But knowing that, and actually doing something about it?

Two very different things.

So I squint at Ty. Then I smile.

I could never forget that face.

Or that voice. Or, fine, her derrière —as I learned in French 101.

I’ve come a long way since those foundational courses. My three-week Paris study abroad taught me plenty. Red wine, fresh bread, and the fact that French women really do walk like they know something you don’t.

But I also majored in kinesiology, so I’ve got a scientific appreciation for things like, well...Faith Easton’s walk-away shot.

Lately, the Eastons have been cozying up to the Stinsons—Vansborough’s version of legacy wealth and ruthless politics. The Stinsons own the trailer park where I grew up. And by own , I mean they raised rent on my mom just because they could.

I’ll never forget coming home from practice one afternoon and finding her crying at the kitchen table. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand like it was no big deal. Like she didn’t know where we were going to live next month.

That was the day I decided I’d get out.

Football. Hustle. Whatever it took.

Meanwhile, the Stinsons were flying private and buying up half the town.

“Fucking Stinsons. They jack up trailer park rent to pay for their fucking jets,” Ty mutters, jaw clenched.

I glance around the table—my cousins Josh and Sheldon, and Ty, who’s my cousin and best friend. My crew . My inner circle. The only people I trust now that money’s made everything murky.

Ever since I signed that rookie contract, the world’s been divided into two kinds of people: those who knew me before , and those who just want a piece of now.

The four of us go way back. We were the kids putting rotten fish under the Stinsons’ porch senior year. Took them five weeks to figure out what the smell was.

I push back from the table. “If she comes back, tell her I want the ribeye.”

Ty nods, and I head toward the bathroom. Try to clear my head.

When I come back, she’s already there—balancing a tray of drinks with a focused, flushed expression that tells me she’s in the weeds.

“Three Town Ales, and a cider for you, sir,” she says, placing the glasses down.

Sir , huh?

My eyes drop to her hand—and the obnoxiously large diamond on her finger. That’s a Daddy’s Money ring if I’ve ever seen one.

She takes our order, scribbles it onto her pad, and turns to leave.

She smells like cherries. Or oranges. Something tropical, sweet, unexpected.

It lingers in her absence.

Sheldon leans across the table, voice low. “That’s her fiancé at the booth behind us.”

I glance past him.

Keith Stinson.

The human polo shirt.

He’s the kind of guy who’s had everything handed to him since birth—legacy college admission, unpaid internships that lead to full-time jobs with fat salaries, a pipeline straight to power and privilege.

I chuckle. “I’ll look at Faith, but I won’t touch. I’ll leave her a fat tip too.”

“You’d like to give her the tip, ” Josh says, grinning.

“Shut up,” I mutter, rolling my eyes.

Josh is twenty. Youngest of the crew, and it shows.

“C’mon, that was funny.”

We clink glasses. A round of cheers. Officially, we’re here to celebrate the bar. The place is crushing it—better than we expected when I fronted the capital. But honestly?

The food excuse was just that—an excuse.

I wanted to see her.

Make sure she was still real. Still here.

It’s been a wild year. Fame. Wealth. Constant motion.

And there’s something about seeing the girl you never had the nerve to talk to in high school that makes you feel grounded in the strangest way.

My eyes drift to Faith again.

Then to Keith.

And even though I shouldn’t— especially because I shouldn’t—I start to wonder.

What kind of sex do they have?

Is it quiet and missionary, just like him? Or does she cry out his name, grip the sheets, fall apart in his arms?

A hot pulse kicks in my gut.

I shouldn’t think about her like that.

But I do.

Because deep down, I know something I shouldn’t admit out loud:

If she weren’t wearing that ring?

I wouldn’t just look.

I’d ruin her for every man who came after.

Above all, though, the thing that draws me in—and the reason I can’t stop staring—are her eyes.

Lively. Kind. Curious.

The kind of eyes you want to unpack, slow and careful, just to learn what thoughts they’re hiding.

And lately, I hope some of those thoughts are dirty.

“So.” Ty has this shit-eating grin and I get a feeling he’s got something on his mind. “You guys ready for next Saturday?” He wiggles his eyebrows for emphasis.

“You mean ready for the sex club?” I say—loudly, because why not?

“Bro, keep it down,” Sheldon hisses.

“Yeah, I’ll definitely keep it down about the super secret sex club five miles outside of town you guys want to drag me to. What if someone hears? We might get gasp judged.”

Sheldon cracks up. “You’re such an asshole, man. I’m serious. This place is invite-only. You say the wrong thing to the wrong person, and the whole restaurant will head to that place to find out about it.”

“Relax,” I say. “No one could find that sex club if they tried. And besides…I’m not going.”

“Oh, come on, you wuss,” Ty groans. “You’re curious. And everyone wears masks—you don’t even know who you’re talking to.”

“Unless you know the sound of their voice,” I say with a grin.

Right then, Faith appears.

She sets down our food, calling out dishes with a soft, easy rhythm.

That voice—sweet, sing-songy, nothing like my ex’s smoky rasp.

I’d recognize it anywhere.

“Can I get y’all anything else right now?” she asks.

My chest tightens. I don’t know why her tone gets under my skin like this—but it does.

Visceral. Immediate.

“We’re great, thanks,” Ty says.

I feel her eyes on me. I finally meet them.

“You’re Hunter Holloway, aren’t you?” she says.

I nod.

She smiles—tight and polite. “Been a while. Congrats on, uh… everything. I’ll leave y’all to eat. Let me know if you need anything else.”

She’s gone before I can even think of what to say.

Our table goes quiet for a second, until Dave’s voice bleeds in from the next booth.

“D.C. is hook-up central, man,” he’s saying. “College interns everywhere. You’re gonna be swimming in pussy.”

Keith laughs. “Sounds like paradise.”

“You did the right thing, telling her what’s up,” Dave continues. “This way, you’re not cheating. You get to have your cake and eat it too. She’ll always be here. I mean, come on—Faith? She’s faithful. Her dad’s best friends with yours. She won’t hook up with anyone. She’s too old-fashioned for that.”

Keith grunts. “Fucking right. Without me, her family’s got nothing.”

I calmly cut into my steak. My table’s moved on to football talk, but I’m locked in, my ears burning.

Then Keith and Dave stand, heading out with a bottle of wine.

What happens next is... up for debate.

Do I have long legs? Yes.

Did I need to stretch them into the aisle just as Keith walked by?

...Debatable.

His foot clips mine. He stumbles.

The wine bottle goes flying.

It crashes to the floor—glass everywhere.

The restaurant goes dead silent.

Then an old guy near the front calls out, “Opa!” and the place erupts in laughter.

Keith scrambles to his feet, flushed and furious.

“Holloway, what the fuck was that?”

“Looks like you need to walk more carefully,” I say, deadpan.

“You tripped me, you piece of shit. That’s assault.”

“Big word, Keith. You sure you know what it means? Because I see it as your leg assaulting my foot.”

“Get her to bring us another bottle,” Dave says, glancing at his watch. “We’re gonna be late.”

Keith sneers. “You’re lucky I’m in a hurry. Otherwise I’d call the cops.”

I shrug. “Not surprised. You’ve always been more of a Daddy’s-boy-than-do-it-yourself kind of guy.”

He glares. Then flips me off as they walk out.

Faith brings them a new bottle on their way.

Mascara smudged. Eyes red.

Shit.

Now I feel like a dick.

Tripping Keith was supposed to be harmless. Funny. Not something that got her yelled at.

“Everything okay?” she asks.

“Sorry about that,” Ty says quickly.

“Just an accident,” Faith says, smiling tight. “They were a little tipsy.”

We finish eating. I toss down a big tip, trying to make myself feel better.

As we head for the door, I glance back.

Faith is in the kitchen, getting scolded by her uncle.

She’s wiping away tears.

Dammit.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

As we step outside, Ty elbows me.

“Why are you so damn quiet around her, man?”

I shrug. “She’s got me tongue-tied.”

Although if I ever got the chance?

I’d untie my tongue.

And show her exactly what I could do with it.