Page 167 of Reverie
But the bitter pill we’ve both had to swallow is that I shouldn’t have made major life decisions at that point in time, so fresh on my healing journey from everything I’d gone through with the abduction.
Lucky for both of us, we’re happy with the outcome.
“I love our baby, Hunter,” I said, placing his hand over my bump.
He stuttered out a breath. “Me too, Sunbeam. You have no idea.”
But now, the tenderness of that moment has evaporated as I approach the outdoor table that Hunter has turned into a workstation. Hunter sits there with the guards—strangers—that Misha sent to meet us for protection. The guards make it a point not to address me directly, which both irritates and sets me on edge. As a result of their avoidance, I don’t know their actual names.
So I’ve taken to calling them SpongeBob, Squidward, and Patrick.
Early this morning, Hunter received a message from Misha that caused him to hole up in the airy pseudo-office in the mansion’s east wing with all three guards to devise a plan. Apparently, Max was also correct that the code on the rings related to the anagram Leo received.
With the new discovery comes the increased need for protection and Hunter’s attention.
Him needing to work out the news isn’t the problem. The problem is he left me in bed to “rest,” and when I came down to talk with him a few hours later, he ushered me into another room to eat breakfast and then to the deck to relax in the hammock.
“Why is it that everyone else can know what’s going on, but I can’t?”
The guard I’ve taken to calling Patrick looks over to me when I speak, but he quickly returns his attention to his comrade, Squidward, before looking back at his computer. Patrick is a tall, stacked man with what looks like a permanent flush to his face and short-cropped, dark hair. His eyes seem a little wild, like he’s done a bunch of coke but is trying really hard to not show it.
Squidward, on the other hand, is also tall, but lithe, and he always has a serious expression on his face, if not an outright scowl. SpongeBob, the short, bulky blonde, moves outside the room.
The three new arrivals spent most of the morning dealing with the massive shipment of provisions that arrived at sunrise. They’ve been milling about taking inventory and talking with Hunter in hushed tones.
And as I hover around Hunter like a bee, his frown is back in full force.
Hunter sighs, and I see his thoughts spinning through his brain—the fight within himself not to simply demand that I go take a nap until he’s done.
Instead, he says, “Come on, let’s talk.”
He puts his hand on my elbow, steering me to the kitchen. I sit on the stool, and after washing his hands, Hunter opens the refrigerator, pulling out the components to make a Cobb salad.
“What do you need, Sunbeam?” Hunter asks, tossing the pre-washed romaine lettuce into a large wooden mixing bowl.
I open my mouth, prepared to provide a litany of tasks that I wish to undertake, but then my sense returns to me and I realize that I don’t actually want todoanything concerning The Legion.
Not really. I’ve had enough action and adventure over the last year. I don’t need to add “face down a cabal” to the list. Still, I just want him to include me.
“I don’t want to be set aside,” I tell him, tapping my fingers on the counter.
Hunter hums as he drops the chicken, tomato, avocado, and chopped red onion into the bowl. “Do you think we’re setting you aside? You know I value your opinion. I love that beautiful brain of yours, remember?” He smiles at me before opening the container of blue cheese. He momentarily pauses, then closes the container and sets it aside. He returns to the fridge and pulls out a container of shredded parmesan.
“I know, H…” I release a sigh.
“I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a total ass from the 1950s, but it would make me so happy if you could relax and not worry about this stuff.”
He adds the new selection of cheese and ranch dressing to the bowl and tosses it with two large serving spoons. I purse my lips, waiting, as he plates the salad and puts the sliced eggs on top. He slides the dish in front of me with a fork.
I give him a skeptical look. “Not worry? Not worry about people trying to kill my husband?”
He rounds the counter to stand next to me. His smile grows and he looks damn near radiant.
“What?” I ask, ticked off.
“You called me your husband so easily then. It just—” He pulls me into him and one of his hands goes to the curls at the base of my neck. It seems to be one of his favorite places on my body.
Well, one of his favorite non-sexual places.