Page 18 of Strut

“Donovan. Yes, I’m well aware.” Tim shot me a sideways look. “Just another Kiwi, huh?” He stepped forward and shook Hunter’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I love your work.”

A smile tugged at Hunter’s lips. “Thanks. You looked good out there today.”

“You watched the show?” Tim practically vibrated with delight.

Hunter nodded. “Some. I came early so I could catch the end.” His gaze slid to mine. “Carol is thrilled, by the way. First time I’ve seen her designs. They’re great, so I introduced myself. But you two burned it up out there.”

Tim positively glowed under the praise, and Hunter turned back to me, his gaze raking over my body, a fact that didn’t slide past Tim who fired me a shit-eating grin.

I blushed, because of course I did. I always fucking blushed.

“You ready to go?” Hunter asked.

“Sure am. Where exactly are we going?”

“Ah.” Hunter tapped the side of his nose. “Now that’s a secret.”

“Mmmm.” I eyed him dubiously. “Hardly reassuring.”

Hunter smirked. “You know me. I’m totally trustworthy.”

“Like hell.” I zipped and handed Tim my go-bag. “Thanks for taking this back for me.”

“No problem.” Tim shot me a wide-eyed look over the back of Hunter’s shoulder and silently mouthed, “Hunter Donovan? What the fuck?”

I grinned and grabbed the quilted, dark blue satin Flare jacket that Rhys had given me before I left. Then I checked the mirror and made a last failed attempt to finger some style into my hair, which was still sticky from spray. I groaned and gave up. “Right.” I turned to Hunter. “Lead on.”

“Wait.” With his eyes locked on mine, Hunter smoothed the hair around my right temple, the touch of his fingers warm and gentle against my skin, and my body flooded with heat. When he was done, he trailed his fingers over my ear before finally dropping his hand. “There, much better.” And his mouth tipped into that slow smile that had bedroom and mayhem written all over it.

“Oh, good,” I croaked. “Saved from the social horror of insufficient grooming.” I sighed and smacked my libido back into place and it laughed at me because, good Lord, the man was sexy and none of it was helping my wavering resolve to stay out of his bed. This was going to be a long afternoon. I narrowed my eyes just to let him know I was onto him and got a smirk in return.

“It’s a calling, what can I say?” He gave a cheeky grin.

“Get out of here.” I pushed him ahead of me out the door, looking over my shoulder to find Tim fanning himself with his hand while mouthing the word, “Hot.”

I flipped him off but couldn’t help the ridiculous grin that split my face.

* * *

Two hours later, Hunter and I were sprawled in the sun on a wooden platform at the Tenth Avenue Square and Overlook on the High Line. The perfect place to people-watch while listening to a Bruce Springsteen wannabe on the street below banging out a fair rendition of the singer’s most popular songs.

I loved this one-and-a-half-mile raised linear park built along a former railroad spur on the west side of Manhattan. I regularly visited here and other green spaces to think and to feed a part of me left starving by the noise and the people and the competition of the castings. It soothed my inner farm-boy heart.

But I wouldn’t have picked this place as Hunter’s choice for a...whatever... in a million years. He was such a city boy. I’d expected an art gallery or maybe a museum. He’d answered my obvious surprise by whispering an amused warning in my ear about assumptions and asses, and I’d flushed, not from his words but from the heat of his breath on my skin. Note above comment re laughing libido.

But once we started walking, we slipped into easy conversation with none of the awkwardness I’d fretted about and proceeded to spend a good hour strolling beside the planted gardens, in between staring down at the thrum on the streets with people and cars going who the hell knew where like bees in a hive searching for their queen. The raised park was a shock of green and a welcome antidote to the chaos of a city where it seemed everyone was after something, everyone had a deal to make—more money, a better job, a new apartment, their big break, fame, beauty... love, whatever.

Separated from that confusion by a few metres, Hunter and I talked about our jobs and life away from New Zealand—about what we missed and what we didn’t.

Hunter found his way into photography through a high school art teacher who saw his talent and happened to know a famous fashion photographer who took Hunter on as an assistant. When the woman retired due to illness five years later, most of her clients defaulted to Hunter. He brushed it off as being lucky, but there was no denying the man was gifted. Luck only took you so far.

Continuing with our walk, we argued over sculptures and the current 14thStreet video art production. Hunter thought it was cool. I said it was a waste of valuable headspace and potentially seizure-inducing. He’d laughed and called me a philistine. I’d whacked him on the arm and told him if he stuck with me, he might develop some actual taste.

Then we’d both lingered appreciatively over Spencer Finch’sThe River That Flows Both Ways,with its seven hundred purple and grey glass panes installed in the former Nabisco factory.

“Each colour was adjusted to match the centre pixel of seven hundred digital pictures of the Hudson River, one taken every minute,” Hunter explained. “Absolutely fucking amazing.”

That kind of said it all, so I just nodded and soaked in the warmth of his body against mine while pretending the flush on my face was down to the sun. Eventually, we tore ourselves away and continued to the Overlook, picking up gelato and hotdogs on the way.

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