Chapter Twenty

Hunter’s POV

I was halfway down the stairs when I realized I couldn’t go to work like I was. Turning, I was going to head back to the bedroom to change, but I couldn’t face Helena in my current mood. I had already said enough in anger.

Fucking great.

The laundry room was two floors down, which meant walking through the house in nothing but a towel. Normally, I wouldn’t give a shit. But with Grace here... yeah. That was different. I wouldn’t have cared if the staff saw me. But Grace... she already looked at me like I’d grown horns lately. I didn’t need to make it worse.

Down the hallway and across the landing. Past the spare bedrooms where Grace’s room was, the landing was—empty, thankfully. I hitched the towel tight around my waist. I moved fast.

I made it into the laundry room without being seen, or so I thought.

The room smelled like lavender and something vaguely chemical. I dug through the racks of clean clothing and finally found one of my clean white shirts and a pair of my black suit pants freshly pressed, then found clean underwear beneath a pile of Helena’s cleaned activewear. I yanked it free.

Then paused.

My fingers clenched the cotton as I stared blankly at the wall. I should’ve confronted her again. About the pills. About everything. Maybe pressed harder for answers.

But first I needed to think. Because just maybe it was as innocent as Helena claimed. Was I just looking for things wrong with my marriage? But with that look in her eyes, I just couldn’t get it out of my head.

She’d lie. She was lying about something. I just wasn’t sure what.

And Grace... Fuck, Grace. What had they done?

Or did Grace know something?

She looked at me like she didn’t know who I was anymore. Like I was the one who’d done something wrong. I’d barely been able to look at her during dinner last night, and yet I hadn’t stopped watching her either. Shit, I needed to get myself together.

I shoved the shirt over my head, jaw tight.

Grace’s POV

I saw him.

Not all of him—just a flash. A brief glimpse of Hunter slipping around the hallway toward the laundry, bare-chested, a towel slung low on his hips.

I froze in the kitchen doorway, heart stopping for a beat. I had never seen Hunter almost naked before, and he was even more impressive than I would have guessed under his work clothes or everyday wear.

He didn’t see me. Or if he did, he didn’t stop.

But it didn’t matter. My mind had already filled in the rest—broad shoulders, the ridges of his stomach, the way his back muscles moved when he walked.

When I was sure he was gone, I headed quickly up the stairs.

I clenched the banister, hating the way my cheeks burned.

God, what was wrong with me? It was a little naked flesh. But it didn’t help because of the dreams I had been having.

It was just a dream.

Dreams I couldn’t stop thinking about during the day.

Dreams I hated myself for having.

He wasn’t mine. He never had been. But last night, in my head, he was. And I woke up sweating and aching, the sheets tangled around my legs, my pulse pounding in places I didn’t want to admit. And then I saw him. Like some cruel joke from the universe. Enough. I needed to get ready for work.

The kitchen was already warm when I stepped in after I had showered and dressed for the day.

Hunter was there. Alone.

A half-full mug of coffee sat by his hand. He stood at the counter in one of his crisp white shirts—untucked, sleeves rolled up—and black slacks. No tie yet. He was barefoot, which felt strange. Too intimate. I almost snorted. No worse than seeing him only in a towel.

I paused by the doorway, fingers gripping the frame like it might hold me up.

He didn’t look over, but he knew I was there. I could feel it. That subtle shift in the air, the way his shoulders tensed for just a second before relaxing again.

I crossed to the cupboard, grabbed a mug. My movements were quiet. I could feel his eyes on me now, dragging over me.

“You’re up early,” he said.

His voice was smooth. Calm. But I knew him. There was something on his mind. After working for him for four years, it was easy for me to pick up on his mood swings.

“Not really. I like mornings.” I poured myself a cup. My hand trembled slightly as I set the pot back down. “You?”

A pause. “Same.”

We sat at the island, two barstools apart. Not close. Not far.

“I didn’t hear Helena come in last night,” I said after a minute, just to fill the silence. I don’t know why I said it. Maybe to remind myself he had a wife. Knowing about Helena’s affair was killing me and I wondered if she was with him last night.

“She’s upstairs.” He said without looking up.

That surprised me. “Oh.”

The silence stretched again. Awkward.

Maybe me living here was a problem after all?

“I’m sorry if I’ve done something,” I blurted out. My voice was quiet, but sharp. Like a splinter. “I feel like you’re... mad at me.”

Hunter looked up at that. Really looked. His eyes met mine, and something passed through them I couldn’t name.

“You haven’t done anything.”

It should’ve been comforting.

But it wasn’t.

I looked away first. “Okay.”

He leaned back slightly on the stool, his posture easy, but there was tension in the set of his jaw. “You don’t need to apologize for anything, Grace. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”

“Is something going on between you and Helena?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Grace.”

Of course not.

I swallowed. “Okay.”

We sat in silence again, drinking our coffee like strangers who used to know each other in a past life.

“You should eat,” he said eventually. “You didn’t touch your dinner last night.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“You need to be.”

Of course, he was worried because I could be carrying his baby. This wasn’t about me, but any child I might be carrying.

He stood, walking over to the fridge. He grabbed eggs and bread, setting them on the counter like it was no big deal. Like this was something he did every day.

It wasn’t.

“Sit,” he said, already cracking eggs into the pan. “I’ll cook. Today is the staff’s day off.”

I watched him, unsure whether to argue or thank him.

He didn’t look like a man who belonged in a kitchen. Everything about him screamed power and control. But the way he moved now—focused, calm—it was... disarming.

So I sat.

He didn’t talk while he cooked. And I didn’t push. I just watched his hands. The way he handled the skillet. The way his brow furrowed slightly when he added salt like this mattered. Like feeding me mattered.

He set the plate down in front of me.

Eggs. Toast. A small handful of spinach sauteed in olive oil. I stared at it for a moment.

“You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

I picked up my fork.

He made one for himself, too. We ate quietly, the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward but too full.

“I appreciate it,” I said eventually.

He nodded once.

“I know things are complicated right now,” I added, not sure why I felt the need to say more. “And I know I’m only here because of the baby. But... I do want to help to make things easier for you and Helena. However I can.”

“It was our choice that you’re here, Grace, remember.”

“I... know.”

He looked at me then. Something unreadable in his expression. “Grace...”

I waited.

But he didn’t finish.

Instead, he stood, picked up his plate, rinsed it and put it in the dishwasher.

A minute later, he turned to me.

“We should go. I have that board meeting at ten.”

I nodded, finished my last bite, putting my plate in the dishwasher and followed him out of the kitchen.

But I kept thinking about the way he said my name.

Like maybe it meant something. God, I was an idiot. I was hearing things that were not there.