Page 45 of Reverie

But Veronica’s questions about my relationship with Hunter distracted me, and then the man himself showed up.

And then we made love.

And we broke up.

“I think I know what you’re talking about,” I say, releasing my bottom lip from between my teeth. “I didn’t open it. I got sidetracked.”

Tension blooms at the base of my neck, causing my shoulders to bunch.

“Yeah,” Amelia says, because what else is there to say?

“Thank you for trying,” I add.

She hums before tapping her fingers on the white marble countertop, signaling a change in topic.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you for a while,” she says.

“How long is a while?”

“Once you moved into D.C.”

Two years?

“Why? I only met Hunter a year ago.”

She smiles. “Like I said, I knew your mother.”

“I see,” I say. “And how long have you been keeping an eye on Hunter and Ella?”

That was the wrong thing to say because her face shuts down again. Feeling awkward, I rise and turn toward the stove. Pulling open the drawers, I don’t speak again until I locate a wooden spoon.

“Do you know who will tell me what the hell is going on around here? Your son isn’t being very forthcoming,” I say, my back to her.

But when she still doesn’t respond, I turn around to find Hunter at the entrance. Amelia’s posture is rigid, and I know that she knows he’s there.

“Hey, H,” I say in a cautious voice. “Do you want something to eat?”

Awk-ward.

He doesn’t reply to me. Instead, he continues staring at his mother and says, “Why are you everywhere I fucking go?” The menace in his statement makesmewant to cry.

“Hunter James Brigham!” I yell, shocked by his attitude.

But I shouldn’t be.

Amelia gathers herself, exhibiting poise so gracefully that it’s clear why she was a beauty queen.

“Thanks for warming up the food for me, Winter. But I’m going to go back to my room. I was just looking for…I don’t know,” she says.

Spinning on her heel, she practically runs out of the kitchen.

I open my mouth to call after her when Hunter interrupts. “Don’t.”

I blink once, twice, three times in rapid succession before saying, “Hunter, don’t you think?—”

“Don’t.” The force of his anger behind the single word causes me to take a large step back. Anger quickly follows my sense of unease.

I open my mouth to say something, anything, but snap it closed again. Turning my back to him, I say, “I warmed soup for myself, and there’s food in the oven. Your mom was supposed to eat it, but you can have it if you want.”

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