Page 32 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter thirty-two

T he next morning, I’m glowing.

Lipstick. A deeper front dip in my blouse than I usually wear to work. A skirt with a flare at the knee instead of my customary slacks.

Bobbie clocks it the second I swing by the ER with a coffee and a grin.

“Did you get laid or hired by Vogue?”

“Neither. Yet.” I shoot her a look. “The day’s still young.”

“But who was the mountain of beautiful man who wandered off as I came up? He looked very dark, dangerous, and served with a side of mysterious.”

Bobbie side-eyes me.

“He wants to be anonymous.”

“Oooh, is he the Supplier?” I deepen my voice theatrically and wiggle my eyebrows .

She shakes her head, declining to answer.

I give her a beat to fill in the blank. I know my bestie, and she definitely has the feels for Anonymous. But when she stays quiet, I know she’s not ready to talk.

That’s Bobbie. She always puts everyone else first. It’s a whole thing. We’ve been working on it for years. She’ll get there eventually.

Before the silence turns awkward, I recap yesterday while we finish our coffee. She hasn’t been called away, which is rare. She almost never gets time to visit at work.

But when I glance at my watch, I realize I’m pushing it. I hail a cab and kiss her cheek goodbye.

As I slide into the backseat, I’m still thinking about last night. Pretty sure that was Grayson in the car. Definitely the asshole who set off the alarm. Cock blocker.

The taxi drops me off with two minutes to spare. When I get to my desk, there are two things waiting.

The first is simple. A white paper bag and a to-go cup from CC’s Coffee House, still warm.

I don’t need to check the label. One sip tells me everything.

Café au lait. Extra hot. Just how I like it.

The pastry inside? A chocolate croissant. The exact one I’d mentioned offhand last night while rambling about comfort food.

Tucked underneath the cup is a napkin. Scribbled in ink :

Can’t wait for tonight – B

I blink. Then blink again.

This is… a lot.

Not in the flashy, dramatic way I’ve gotten used to. Not the hunter-prey, psychological warfare vibe.

This is soft, quiet, attentive in a way I’m not used to. And it hits harder than I want to admit.

I snap a quick pic of the setup, coffee and croissant still untouched, and send it straight to Bobbie.

Is this normal??? do men do this???

Because I might be broken

No response yet. She’s probably wrist-deep in someone’s abdomen, but she’ll get it.

It doesn’t feel real. And no one’s ever done it before.

Men miss the little cues. That’s why girlfriends usually offer more intimacy than boyfriends or husbands.

They listen.

But this? This feels like being handed something you only ever see on TikTok. Or read about.

The soft that rarely survives the real world.

The second gift is smaller. Matte black. No label. Just my name, written in gold ink.

Inside: No Beast So Fierce. Hardcover. Autographed .

I open the cover. And of course, he’s left a note.

Interesting choice. The Champawat was a tigress who turned a shattered jaw into legend. She didn’t get lucky, she got strategic. She could have become prey and fallen short. Instead, she turned everything upside down. Adapting makes you lethal. – G

I stare at the note a second too long.

Then I pull out my phone, snap a quick photo, and text it to Bobbie with exactly the kind of caption the moment demands.

Holy shit. look @ this.

This man is either terrifying or soulmate material. Maybe both.

No reply. But she’s going to lose her mind.

Two gifts. One says I heard you. The other says I know what you are.

Neither man touched me this morning. And yet? I feel claimed in two different languages.

My love languages. Which are all of them.

And here, from both, I have everything but physical touch.

For someone who’s never had attention this… It’s what I’ve always yearned for. What I want. What I will grab with both hands and not let go.