Holy crap.
Hunt didn’t recognize himself. This wasn’t who he was, this wasn’t who he wanted to be. Adie had him tied up in knots; around her, he was the human equivalent of an intricately tangled ball of Christmas lights.
The real Hunt, the Hunt he was comfortable with—free, decisive, commitment-phobic—never spent this much time talking to or thinking about a woman.
But Adie, whether she was with him or not, was always front and center and...
He didn’t like it.
Not one bit.
But, dammit to hell and back, he really liked her.
Adie patted his chest before stepping back. “Let’s just take a deep breath here, Sheridan. Hell, in a day or two you might find me bloody annoying and you’ll be desperate to get rid of me.”
“I doubt that,” Hunt murmured, not being able to visualize feeling that way.
“Or I might find that you are actually a huge jerk under that gorgeous body and hot face.”
Now that was much more likely.
On Sunday morning, and after a night reliving Hunt’s truly excellent kiss, Adie stood under the portico of The Stellan, which was one of the most iconic apartment buildings in Manhattan. Like the Eldorado, it was constructed in the thirties and was an art deco masterpiece.
Adie found it hard to believe that Hunt owned not one, but all the apartments in this building. Most he used as office space, the penthouse was his living space and the floor separating his work and personal space was an apartment used for visitors. His view of Central Park, while not as wild as the vistas from Ashby Hall overlooking the sandy beaches of western Wales, had to be amazing.
Adie rocked on the heels of her over-the-knees brown suede boots and wished Hunt had invited her up to his apartment instead of offering to meet her outside. She would love to see where he lived, but knew that if she stepped into his apartment, she had a very good chance of becoming intimately acquainted with his bedroom.
Which wouldn’t be the worst place to be on a Sunday morning...
Had she been in her early twenties, that was exactly where she’d be this morning. Lying there naked with stars in her eyes, mentally redecorating his bedroom, wondering what to cook him for dinner or whether they’d have a boy or a girl first.
Yeah, she’d gotten that carried away before. To be honest, she’d been, on the odd occasion, worse than that. She’d once, okay, maybe a few times, flat out begged her boyfriend not to leave her.
It had not been pretty.
Looking back on the desperate, sad, intense girl she’d been was difficult. It made her cringe, but it was necessary because she refused to be that needy, weak person again. Because her parents had withheld love and affection, she’d craved attention and she’d looked for it in all the wrong places. It had taken her a long time to wake up and become emotionally independent but, since her midtwenties, she’d been too scared to test those sexual waters again.
What if thoseI-think-I-might-love-himanddoes-he-like-meandI’ll-do-anything-to-keep-himfeelings came roaring back again? It had taken her so long to find herself, to be at peace with who and what she was, that she couldn’t take the risk of backsliding, of letting Hunt crawl under her skin and into her heart.
She couldn’t, wouldn’t, take the risk of reverting back to that scared, insecure person she’d been.
The combination of Christmas and Hunt could do that to her. No, she was right to refuse his offer of a quick affair.
But what if she slept with him and managed to stay emotionally detached? What if she trusted herself a bit more, trusted that the five years since her last broken heart had healed her? What if she was perfectly capable of handling a quick affair with Hunter? What if she was cured of her attention-seeking habit?
If that had happened, was she refusing Hunter for nothing? Was she missing out on some spectacular sex with Hunter for a no-longer-valid reason? If she was cured of her youthful folly, she could not only embark on a blistering affair with Hunter but she could also, when she returned to London, start to date again.
Was she making a huge mistake by simply assuming she was still weak?
“Adie.”
Adie hauled in a deep breath, grateful oversized sunglasses covered her eyes because, damn, Hunt tempted her to rethink her no-sex stance. In designer jeans, desert boots and a gray-and-blue-flecked sweater worn under a battered bomber jacket, he looked relaxed and younger than usual. And she liked the thick stubble on his jaw and his messier-than-usual hair. Hair she wanted to run her hands through, hair she wanted to grip as he kissed his way down her stomach, over her hipbone...
“Hi.”
“Hi back. Thanks for giving up your morning,” Hunt told her, blowing on his hands.
His fantastic eyes searched her face. “Everything okay?” he asked.