The Hunter: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance: Chapter 26

We rented a car and drove the four hours back to Boston. Hunter was silent the entire time, save for the first ten minutes, when he rehashed everything that had happened with his father and brother in a strange, detached voice that didn’t belong to him.

“That’s how little faith they had in me.”

“You didn’t exactly give them prime reason to trust you before, though.” I argued their point, not necessarily because I agreed with them, but because I knew how miserable it would make Hunter to be estranged from his family. No matter the complexities of their relationship, he loved and adored Cillian and Gerald, looked up to them. He always wanted to be like them and never thought he could.

“You sound like them.”

“You mean, logical?”

He scoffed. “Did you know about my dad hiring yours?” He sent me a sidelong glance, scowling as he continued zipping through the open road.

“Are you insane?” I asked. “Of course not.”

“And if you knew?” he pressed.

I was hoping he wouldn’t ask that. I shook my head. “I don’t answer hypothetical questions.”

“Newsflash: you’re about to answer this one,” he shot back.

“You need to calm down.”

“What I need is someone on my fucking side.”

“I am on your side,” I growled.

“You’d be in my bed, if you were,” he had the audacity to say, no trace of guilt or remorse in his words. “Yet you aren’t.”

“That’s because I’m on my side, too.”

“Meaning?” He scoffed.

“Meaning I don’t want to be any more attached to you than I already am, because you obviously don’t feel the same.”

“And if I do?” he asked after a charged pause.

I shook my head. “You don’t. You’re incapable of that. You come from a long line of adulterers. How would you know any different?”

He sat back, shaking his head. I immediately knew how awful that sounded. How disgusting I was to him. “Cat’s out of the bag now. So if I’m a serial adulterer like my parents, does that mean you’re going to be carving people’s faces like a pumpkin like your daddy? Are we playing the gene game now? ’Cause rest assured, darling, we may not be the same brand of fuck-up, but we are both far from the realms of normalcy.”

I said nothing. He was right.

Hunter continued, “What would it take for you to know I’m serious about this? About us? A grand gesture? A binding contract? A fucking ring?”

“Maybe stop being ashamed of me. Of us,” I bit back. “That could have been enough.”

I referred to the night with Knight and Luna, to all the times he’d minimized whatever it was we’d had. I was sure he caught the reference.

Hunter got a text message. He opened it, driving.

“Fuck,” he muttered, throwing his phone to the central console as more text messages poured in, lighting his screen in white. His screensaver was a picture of a woman’s ass with the saying: Go hard or go home.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he punched the steering wheel, seething. “I need to catch a plane to London. Something came up.”

“What?” I asked, incredulous.

“Vaughn,” he said, as if that explained everything. “I’m dropping you off at home. Hopefully I’ll be able to keep my pants on while I’m there. As for you, try not to kill anyone, yeah?”

Now a week had passed since Hunter grabbed me by the arm and stormed out of the refinery apartments in Maine. It was the first time since he was a boy in the rain that I’d seen him truly broken.

I hadn’t heard from him since he’d left for London. I didn’t want to ask Aisling about him, but of course I couldn’t help myself. She said he’d gone for the weekend and hadn’t been picking up anyone’s calls. When I finally broke down and visited his apartment, he wasn’t there.

Not two days ago, and not yesterday, long after he was supposed to be back, according to Ash.

Hunter had disappeared, and with him, my favorite summer.

“Thank you so much for doing this. I know how much you loathe the media.” Vanessa Shieling of the Good Morning, Boston! show leaned forward and tapped my thigh, a veneered smile on her face.

There was something almost clownish about her Botox-enhanced perfection. Her carefully swept blonde hair was too shiny, too put-together. She straightened her back in her seat, brushing nonexistent wrinkles from her A-line red dress.

“How do you know I dislike interviews?”

She wasn’t wrong. The best part about retiring from archery was I didn’t have to talk to the media anymore. Because while Royal Pipeline’s refinery didn’t explode, the Junsu and Lana case did. The media wanted my side of the story. I refused, but then Crystal, whom I still had a contract with, argued that by not addressing it, I was letting the rumors about my own misconduct roam free.

“You did nothing wrong, at least this decade. You killed her dog, not her parents,” she spat over the phone, and I cringed. But she wasn’t wrong. I needed to set the record straight once and for all.

“Thirty seconds,” the director of the show called from the depths of the darkness in front of the well-lit studio. There was a whole other world in front of the stage, with Boston’s landscape in the background—one with cameras and wires and people with head mics and frantic assistants, living in the shadows of the glamorous TV world. There was also an audience. The seats were jam-packed and full of viewers.

Vanessa gave the director the thumbs-up. “We have everything we need?”

“Yup,” he answered.

Everything they needed? I didn’t like the sound of that.

“Ready?” She turned to ask me.

“As I ever will be,” I muttered.

Once we were on air, Vanessa began questioning me about the rivalry with Lana, the roots of it. I told her about Spot and about Lana’s injury, which I’d caused. I came clean about my part of what happened. Then we discussed all the things that had been done to me. Lana and Junsu were facing serious allegations, and likely weren’t going to participate in any official sports in this lifetime. Then Vanessa turned her line of questions to more private matters.

“Let’s talk about those paparazzi pictures.” Vanessa rested her chin over her knuckles, frowning in concentration. “You were seen storming out of your former archery club with a half-naked Hunter Fitzpatrick on your heels. For viewers who are not aware, Mr. Fitzpatrick is the nineteen-year-old heir to Royal Pipelines and a notorious playboy. Earlier last year, he was involved in a scandalous sex-tape incident that—”

I raised my palm. “No.”

“Excuse me?” She smiled tightly.

“No. You cannot reduce him to being a playboy, to…to some guy who had a sex tape. He was filmed without his knowledge while doing something…” I wanted to say “that he regretted,” but Hunter probably didn’t regret one second of it. “…something that should’ve been done more privately, yes. But he is not some silly heir. He is hardworking and honest and generous and caring. He would put himself at risk for those he cares about.”

I thought about the pub brawl he’d gotten into when we barely knew each other, about the lengths he’d gone to to save his father and brother. I even thought about that stupid fundraiser, when I’d freaked out and he’d held me in his arms, refusing to let go until I was completely okay.

“Hunter has made mistakes, but so has the rest of humanity,” I continued. “Only difference is Hunter has had the public eye on him since day one. He never had a chance to figure himself out privately.”

“Are you saying you guys are an item?” Vanessa grinned.

Seriously? That’s what she got out of everything I said?

I felt myself blushing under the thick layer of makeup. “That’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“So you’re not an item,” she stressed.

“Right,” I said around a lump of bitterness in my throat. “We’re just…friends.”

Then why does it feel like dying to admit that?

“Well,” Vanessa said sweetly, tapping her cards on her lap. “As it happens, he doesn’t see things the same way as you do. Which brings me to the following item. I’d like to invite my next guest, Hunter Fitzpatrick!”

My heart jerked inside my chest like a snake had bitten it. I sucked in a breath and blinked as he came into focus, wearing a smart, camel-hued suit—accessorized with his killer cheekbones, taunting smirk, and beautiful blond locks swept backward. His blue, blue eyes zeroed in on me as he strode into the studio, leaving no room for questions.

He was the Hunter.

I was the prey.

He sauntered to the center of the stage. Instead of taking a seat next to me on one of the blue loungers—in front of Vanessa—he remained standing, putting a mic someone from the production team gave him to his mouth.

“Well, fuck me,” Hunter spoke into the microphone, running a hand through his velvet hair. His feline eyes, so wildly exotic and blue they caught every sliver of light in the room, glittered with mischief. “I just realized something pretty depressing, Vanessa.”

“What is that, Mr. Fitzpatrick? And please use appropriate language for a morning show.” The pedicured host flashed a dazzling smile to the camera, by way of apology.

It was blatantly obvious she was torn between being delighted at this new, unexpected outburst that would surely bump up her ratings, and horrified about him dropping the F-bomb on television, especially because most of her viewers were housewives and young mothers.

I tried to regulate my breaths, acutely aware my heart flapping here and there in my ribcage.

“I’m in love with Sailor Brennan. Shit. Okay, that’s no good.” He chuckled, strolling the length of the studio with the microphone in his hand, frowning. “End me now, Vanessa. For I’m already toast. It is much, much more embarrassing than my other brush with fame. Then, I had my dick out. Now, I have my heart on the line. My friends are going to have a field day when they see this. I was the last one standing, you see. I thought I was immune from the L-word. I always made sure to put a condom on my emotions before talking to a chick, let alone doing anything more. So many women have left me over the years, I figured leaving them first was the best course of action. But you, Sailor, you’re the one I won’t let get away.” His eyes burned darkly, intensely, like a fire catching as they bore into mine. “Serial killer much? Yeah, but it’s the truth. I’m not letting you leave me.”

People laughed in the audience, and poor Vanessa’s tight smile evaporated into a look of horror.

I barely managed to comprehend what he was saying. It felt like an out-of-body experience.

Hunter Fitzpatrick was confessing his undying love to me.

Publicly.

So painfully publicly.

I’d told him I thought I was his dirty little secret, so he’d made a public declaration. In the car back from Maine, he’d asked what it would take. A ring…a contract… And what did I answer? To stop being ashamed of us. This was him proving to me that he never was.

“And of course,” Hunter spread his arms, continuing his monologue, “in true Fitzpatrick fashion, I had to go and fall in love with the daughter of a…” He paused, backtracking when he realized what he was about to say. “A legitimate businessman, unless proven otherwise.”

The audience burst out laughing, and I blushed. Hunter turned around, found my gaze, and smiled. It was a smile I’d never seen before. It wasn’t taunting or sexy or entertained. He looked boyish, almost sheepish. There was something deliciously innocent about that smile. I wanted to capture it, take a picture, frame it, and tuck it under my pillow.

“Fuck me, Sailor Brennan. You really did a number on my heart. I guess what I’m trying to say—while offending the ears of every middle-aged housewife in this state—is that this is real. It’s always been real. You said I never wanted you, but the truth was, I never wanted anyone but you. Not really. But I hadn’t realized it until you walked away, and for the first time in my life, I couldn’t eat, sleep, or breathe. I see you, aingeal dian, even when you’re trying to hide. Especially when you are trying to hide. I cannot unsee you. I’m like that kid from The Sixth Sense. Only you’re not dead, and I’m not hella annoying.”

More laughter. I realized some of the giggling came from my throat. I also realized I was choked up, my eyes coated with tears through which I watched him, blurry and defiant and a changed man, but still the same guy I’d grown to admire.

He walked to my seat, crouching down on one knee in front of me in an act of pure submission. “Angry angel. Aingeal dian means angry angel. The first time I held you in my arms, at the fundraiser event, two things occurred to me. The first was that I couldn’t let go of you, even if you asked really, and I mean really nicely. The second was that I was unworthy of keeping you. I ran away from you my entire life without even knowing you, Sailor. But the moment I met you—okay, maybe a few weeks after that—I figured out not having you was not an option. So, here I am, asking for a second chance. And some ass. But the ass can definitely come later. I just want us to be us. Together. Exclusively. DoorDash and Netflix galore. Like a real couple and shit.”

“Mr. Fitzpatrick!” Vanessa gasped, putting a hand to her chest, pretending to be scandalized. “For the love of God, language!”

Hunter and I shared a conspiratorial grin.

“My bad. Anyway, that’s the bottom line. I’m stupid in love with you, Sailor Brennan. Will you have my dumb ass? Flaws included. No returns.”

“Fourteen business days to return said butt, and I get my full heart back if your performance is not to my satisfaction.” I started bargaining with him on live television.

This was what we did. We bantered.

His eyes lit up with mischief. “You never complained about the performance during your free trial period.”

“Meh.” I shrugged. “It was free. Paying for something with hearts and other organs is a completely different matter.”

“Fine. I believe in my product. You got yourself a deal.” He stood up in front of me. I reached my hand between us to shake on it. He took it and jerked me up, engulfing me in his huge arms.

He pressed a kiss to my mouth, a Hollywood-worthy kiss—the type you see in ’90s movies seconds before the credits roll.

I was Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, an unlikely heroine in my own story.

I heard the audience stand up and cheer for us, clapping and whistling and laughing with joy. In the background, Vanessa was talking about young love and about finding yourself in another person. It sounded like she was reading it from the back of a Philosophy skincare bottle.

Hunter’s lips left mine for a beat, and I growled my protest immediately, searching for them again.

“Say yes,” he breathed into my mouth. “Say you’ll never leave.”

“Never,” I murmured. “I love you so much, Hunter. It terrifies me how far I’ll go to save you.”

“However far that is, know I’ll go even farther for you.”

He kissed me again, and the universe tilted, shifted, wiping everything clean: other people and trees and birds and buildings. The only thing left standing, upside-down, were the two of us, clasped in each other’s arms, defying gravity. It felt surreal. Unreal.

And this, I thought as I drowned in his kisses, is how you know it is real.

Three days later, Sailor drove me to Avebury Court Manor.

I wanted to see my father and Cillian a little less than I wanted to scuba dive with Scylla, the unfriendly mythical Greek sea monster. Alas, my mother had come knocking on my door numerous times, begging, crying, and pleading. After she’d admitted I was her golden child, it was a dick move to refuse her. Anyway, Sailor said if I wanted her to move her shit back to our apartment, I had to stitch things up with my family. For her, I’d make nice with world-class dictators.

But I’m repeating myself, because Da and Cillian give Bashar al-Assad a run for his money.

Then there was the other thing I hated to admit: I actually loved working for Royal Pipelines. I grew up thinking I’d hate it because I was destined to do it, not realizing it would fulfill me to be a part of my family’s company.

Making money was my calling. It gave me a hard-on. Somewhere along the way, I’d gotten attached to Royal Pipelines, and Cillian and Athair were a big part of it.

“Just listen to what they have to say.” Sailor tapped her thumb over the steering wheel.

I stared out the window, scowling at the trees shedding golden and red leaves. The gray, Gotham-like sky above the shingled colonial buildings poured hail. I realized with displeasure that I loved Boston and its East Coast grit—its filthy alleyways, four seasons, and Irishness. It bled my legacy, and I couldn’t turn my back on it. I’d lived the last few years pretending to be an all-American, Californian dudebro who was into sports and the beach and girls who wore neon biker shorts to attend Kanye West’s church. But my soul wasn’t mass-market plastic like theirs.

My soul was inked with Boston.

For the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged.

“I will,” I told my girlfriend—yes, girlfriend—absentmindedly. Though I wasn’t exactly optimistic. “But here’s a spoiler: They’ll tell me I can have my job back, I’ll agree, and then we’ll have dinner. We’ll bail out before dessert for anal. Bareback. I’ll come everywhere. Let’s hope you don’t get pink eye.”

Unless Sparrow brings that banoffee pie she makes. Then anal can wait and we’ll stay for dessert. I would convert to its religion if it had one.

“Fine by me.” Sailor popped her lips. “All I’m asking is for you to give them a chance.”

“Done.”

“And tell me why you went to London.”

I smirked down at her. She’d asked me this a thousand times. I always gave her the same answer.

“Sorry, baby girl. It’s not my secret to tell. Just know I didn’t touch anyone there, other than myself. I did jerk off to pictures of you arching that I found on Google.”

The electronic gate of my parents’ mansion opened, and Sailor drove in, parking alongside the huge fountain at the entrance. I slid out and opened the door for her. We walked in hand in hand. A minute before we passed the threshold, she stopped. She squeezed my palm and looked up at me.

“Six months ago, I was hell-bent on going to the Olympics, and you were determined not to work for your father. Now, both those things aren’t true. I have no idea where life will take me, but definitely not the Olympics. You became your own person, a talented businessman, a guy with a girlfriend. Whatever we did, Hunter, we did it together. No matter what happens today, know that we both came a long way. I’ve never been prouder to be on someone’s arm.”

I leaned down, kissing the tip of her nose. She was a fucking vision, Sailor Brennan. I finally understood why Knight could never touch anyone else, even before he and Luna hooked up. No other girl in the world could stir in me what Sailor did when I looked at her. Adriana Lima in-fucking-cluded.

“Just out of curiosity, how many arms have you been draped on?” I murmured into the shell of her ear, entertained by the goose bumps prickling her flesh.

“One,” she whispered. “I’m looking at him right now.”

“That takes the sting out of the compliment.” I laughed.

“Take the compliment, Hunter.”

“Take your clothes off, prey.”

We strolled into the dining hall, which grew louder and livelier with noise and laughter as we ambled in. When we stopped at the edge of the double doors, we noticed the room was filled with our loved ones.

Mom, Da, Cillian, Aisling, Troy, Sparrow, Sam, the Penrose sisters, and all the servants of the estate.

My parents turned to face us in unison, sensing my presence before I announced myself. Mom jumped out of her recliner like her ass was on fire, collecting Sailor and me into a greedy hug. The room went quiet as she let out a guttural shriek full of relief.

“You’re here. Oh my goodness, you’re really here. Thank you so much for convincing him to come, Sailor.”

“My pleasure, Jane. Hunter’s, too.” Sailor elbowed me pointedly, maneuvering out of the very awkward hug and leaving me to actually hug my mother for the first time in a decade.

I patted her back, and she stepped away, cupping my cheeks. She scanned my face, taking inventory. Her eyes were full of unshed tears, hope, and love—so much love, its weight nearly suffocated me. I wondered how I’d never seen it before. But the answer was clear: I’d never loved someone myself to know what love looked like.

Not truly.

Not until Sailor.

I placed one of my hands on my mother’s, squeezing it against my cheek. “Sorry I was an asshole.”

She shook her head. “No, Hunter. I’m the one who’s sorry. All I want is a chance to make it right.”

“You have it,” I answered. If I got a second chance not to be B-grade gigolo, why couldn’t she?

“Son,” Da called from the depths of the room, sitting on a golden recliner in the center of the dining hall. “Come sit. We have something to discuss.”

Cillian was seated to his right. Troy and Sam to his left. Sparrow sat so close to Troy, she was practically on his lap. There were two empty chairs in front of him, which I guessed were reserved for Sailor and me. The Fitzpatricks preferred to conduct their business privately, so this was out of character. We usually liked our encounters like we did our steaks: rare and without any add-ons.

I took Sailor’s palm in mine and led her to sit down in front of them.

“Thank you for coming, ceann beag.” Da bowed his head, letting out a ragged, relieved breath. He looked pained—humbled, almost.

Cillian tapped his hand impatiently, bringing him back to the moment.

Troy Brennan surprised me by being the first to talk.

“Sorry to interrupt your little Dr. Phil moment. Since some of us have real jobs to get back to, I guess I should do the talking. I met my wife, Sparrow, in quite unnatural circumstances. I married her because I felt inclined to, not because I was particularly in the mood for nuptials.” He took Sparrow’s hand. “Frankly, I didn’t think I had a good fit. I was a lone wolf, which suited me well, or so I thought. Turned out, all I needed was a good kick in the ass. Sometimes, what we want and what we need are two vastly different things. I learned that the unexpected way. So when Gerald came to me with a seven-digit business proposal, in which my daughter’s happiness could be enhanced, I took it.”

Sailor and I exchanged expressions. I could feel her pulse thrumming on her wrist against mine. We turned our gaze to my father.

That motherfucker…

“It is true.” Gerald sat back, pinching his lips together.

Everyone in the room held their breath. The air was thick with bittersweet agony.

Da continued, “I met Sailor Brennan months ago, while taking an archery class with a client, after years of not seeing her. Sailor’s trainer, Junsu, conducted the class for us. She came for her own practice when we were about to leave. We decided to stay and watch her. Her precision and care were compulsive, divine; after she was done, we congratulated her. We were standing in the parking lot, talking, when a thief snatched an elderly woman’s purse on the street. Sailor went after him like lightning when no one else did. She chased him across the street, jumped on him, brought him down, grabbed the purse, and hit him across the head with it for good measure. She returned the purse, walked back to us, smiled politely, and asked Junsu if she could come train earlier the next day. I thought to myself, this is the kind of kid who should be influencing Hunter—not the degenerate, nouveau riche Kardashian-style clowns he associated himself with in southern California. She had feisty Irish blood running through her veins, and I wanted you, Hunter, to remember that you were made of the same stuff—sturdy, rough, and capable. I admit I set you up for failure twice. One, I required you not to touch her for six months, knowing you would fail, because she had the fire you’ve been looking for your whole life. And two, I did not help you solve the Sylvester case. But only because I knew you were capable of doing that yourself. I wasn’t proving a point to me, son. That wasn’t the test. I was proving it to you, showing you that you could do it. This was not an audition for you to re-enter the family. You were always a part of us. I wanted you to unveil your own greatness. Guess what? You did.”

I felt my jaw ticking, but I refrained from lashing out. Sailor and I had been placed in an arranged relationship without our consent and knowledge. And the worst part was that my father and Troy hadn’t been wrong in their predictions. We did fall for each other. And I did learn about my capabilities through Da’s twisted plan.

Gerald leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes digging into my scowl, trying to read it. “I’ve never shunned you, ceann beag. You’re my son. Mine, and no one else’s. I call you little one because you were always precious to me. From the moment you were born, you were so lovely, people on the street mistook you for a girl. God touched you, blessed you with something special, and I couldn’t wait to see what you’d do with it. My love for you was dipped in a good amount of apprehension, because you didn’t come from me. You were not biologically programmed to love me back like Cillian and Aisling, and that unsettled me. There was something wild and foreign and mysterious about you, an undiscovered continent full of secrets and things I did not know or possess. You were smart as a demon and completely unstoppable, a storm. When you chose to misuse the gifts you were given, it broke my heart, but I always knew you had it—the ruthless gene. You simply had to be pushed in the right direction.”

I knew it was my turn to say something, but I was still waiting for Kill to speak. Whether Gerald Fitzpatrick loved me like a son or not, it was obvious to the entire city of Boston that his heir, the future leader of the Fitzpatrick clan, was going to be none other than Cillian. He was going to take over this kingdom, and my place in it depended on him.

The truth of it rattled me. I was a prince between two kings, always would be.

But for the first time, I stopped resenting the fact that he was born to rule, and I, to govern beside him.

I turned my face toward Kill. “Anything to add?”

He crossed his legs, assessing me through a thinly veiled expression of boredom. “We’re going to have disagreements, arguments, and fights. I’m going to do things you’re going to hate, and you are going to have to bite your tongue and march on, like the good soldier you are. I, in return, promise to accommodate your poor language choices and ability to find a sexual innuendo in anything on the planet, and I promise not to touch your girlfriend.”

“Well.” Sailor jumped into his speech, taking the bait, like Kill knew she would.

He sat back and grinned at her, awaiting the verbal whip.

“You don’t really have much choice in the matter. No offense, but I’d rather take a corpse to bed than you.”

“None taken, and it would probably offer you more affection,” Cillian confirmed, returning his eyes to me.

“Possibly because you will be a corpse if you talk about my sister like that again,” Sam added with a poisonous little smile.

Everyone but Cillian laughed.

“Nevertheless,” Kill continued, “I want you to be my right hand. I know you are good for it. You’ve proven yourself trustworthy, honest, and hardworking. You’ll be my moral compass. God knows I need one. I want you by my side, brother.”

I stood, tugging Sailor by the hand, signaling to her that the conversation was over. To me, it was.

“I’ll need a detailed contract ensuring my inheritance is intact, and furthermore, that you waive the right to dangle it in my face every time we have a disagreement.” I looked between my brother and father. “Am I understood?”

My father shot to his feet, scowling.

“We just told you we love you, and you want your inheritance rights to be documented?”

“I am a Fitzpatrick.” I shot him a cold smile.

I turned to make my way to the dining table. Sailor hugged Aisling and the Penrose sisters hurriedly before rushing to my side. We entered the dining hall. Everybody followed. I took a seat at the side of the table.

Da took the seat beside me, making his position clear.

Cillian took the head of the table, signaling the shift of generations.

Troy sat on the other side of the table’s head, Sam by his side.

Da put his hand on mine. From across the table, Mom smiled, silent tears running down her powdered cheeks.

Kill raised his wine glass in salute at the head of the table. Everyone joined the toast this time—all drinking actual wine.

“To our kingdom, and to showing our enemies why it will remain ours. To being a Fitzpatrick.” He paused, looking between the two Penrose sisters speculatively, an inch of a smile curving over his face. “And to Boston.”