Chapter Thirty-Seven

Frankie

“I’d like to take you home with me,” Hunter says.

I try to conceal my surprise, but I fear I’m not very successful.

“Don’t look so surprised.”

“I just figured. You know. The club.”

“I don’t go to the club without my cape and mask,” he says.

“So you weren’t hoping we’d end up there tonight?”

“I’d very much like to take you there, but we have plans for that tomorrow. I’d like to take you home. To my place.”

“When’s the last time you had a woman at your place?” I can’t help asking.

“It’s been a long time, Frankie.”

“Was it Teresa?”

“Yes.” His gaze doesn’t waver from mine. “I don’t want there to be secrets between us. I’ve already divulged a huge one to you.”

“Then I’d be honored.” I wince. “I mean… That didn’t come out right at all.”

“I understand what you mean. You’re saying you’d like to come with me.”

“I would.”

“I want you to know,” he says, “that just because we’re not inside the club doesn’t mean your safety isn’t guaranteed at all times. I would never let anything happen to you, and we don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Hunter, I appreciate the sentiment.” I reach across the table and squeeze his hand. “I do. But you’re taking the romance out of it.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to do romance.”

“You keep saying that, but you read all the classics. You know what love is. You know what love is supposed to feel like between two people. In The Great Gatsby, Jay Gatsby would do anything to be with his love, even though she wasn’t available. I know you understand the concept.”

He doesn’t reply.

I hope I haven’t upset him, and I open my mouth to apologize, but then I shut it.

There was nothing wrong with what I said. I don’t want to lose whatever is budding between Hunter and me, but I also can’t let everything slide. I’m not Mandy. I’m not an introvert. I wouldn’t call myself an extrovert, either, but I’m going to lay my cards on the table. I’m going to say what I want to say.

He’s still silent.

“I’d like to go with you, Hunter. If it’s what you want.”

He clears his throat. “It is what I want. I’d like to show you a little more of myself, Frankie. I’d like to show you my home. Maybe tell you a little bit more about myself. About my work.”

“I’d like that very much.”

The server comes with the check and sets it down in front of Hunter. This is an expensive place, and I make pretty good money.

“Let me help with that,” I say.

He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. When I take a lady out, I pay.”

Those words from another man might sound chauvinistic, but I don’t get that feeling from Hunter at all. He’s simply being a gentleman.

A gentleman and an amazing person. I wish he hadn’t held his emotions at bay for so long.

I smile. “Thank you. I appreciate your generosity. I enjoyed the dinner very much.”

“I did too.” He returns my smile. “But I enjoyed the company even more.”

We leave the restaurant and hail a cab.

“I hope you don’t mind taking a cab. I don’t own a car.”

“Are you kidding?” I laugh. “I don’t, either. Who could afford to, here in the city?”

Traffic is a mess, but we finally make it to Hunter’s brownstone. It’s a quaint building, all red brick, and while I’m used to a doorman, the brownstone has an old-fashioned key and no intercom.

He opens the door to the front, and then he leads me up the stairwell to his apartment. “There are two apartments up here,” he says. “Mine is the smaller, but it’s perfect for me. Two bedrooms, one of which I use as an office. A tiny kitchen, but I’m not the best cook in the world, so I eat sandwiches, mostly, with the occasional takeout.” He unlocks the door. “Here it is.”

I walk inside, and my jaw drops.

I feel like I’ve walked into the past.

The house itself is historic, and Hunter has decorated it with what look like antiques, though I honestly don’t have an educated eye regarding decor.

“Wow,” I can’t help saying.

“I take it you like it.”

“I love it. It’s absolutely beautiful.” I walk toward a navy-blue sofa with cherrywood feet upholstered in some kind of brocade with bumblebees embroidered onto it. The coffee table sitting in front of it is the same cherry with a gorgeous silver-and-gold marble top. On top are several books, leather bound, including, of course, The Great Gatsby.

Two wingback chairs also flank the coffee table on the other side, upholstered with the same navy blue but no bumblebees.

Between the two chairs is a small cherry table on a pedestal.

The entire apartment floor is dark hardwood, but a blue-and-burgundy Turkish rug sits under the coffee table. A wine rack sits off to the side, made of the same cherrywood with wrought iron accents.

“Let me show you everything else.” Hunter leads me to the small kitchen and dining area. Another Turkish rug sits under the dining room table, which is small, to accommodate the size of the apartment, but again it looks like something that came out of the early twentieth century. Cherry again—he must like cherry—and the chairs are upholstered in navy and burgundy stripes.

“Did you decorate this yourself?” I ask.

“I did, actually.” He runs his hand over the upholstery of one of the wingbacks. “Believe it or not, I found each of these pieces on the secondhand market and restored them myself.”

“Wow. You’re an artist, Hunter.”

“It’s just a hobby. I enjoy it. When you read and teach all day, it’s nice to do something with your hands on the weekends.”

“It’s all gorgeous. I can’t wait to see the bedroom.” I clamp my hand over my mouth. “I mean… I don’t mean…”

He laughs. “I know exactly what you mean, Frankie. I’d love to show you the bedroom, but first I want to show you my working area. My office.”

He leads me through one of the bedroom doors, and the first thing my gaze falls upon is an antique rolltop desk, again in cherry.

“Are all these pieces actually made of cherry? Or did you stain them to look that way?”

“They’re all cherry, but I did use some stain to freshen up the color.”

“They’re beautiful. You actually work at the rolltop desk?”

“No.” He gestures. “I work mostly in that recliner, with my laptop.”

Indeed, the leather recliner—the leather is a dark brown—sits in the corner of the room along with a floor lamp. Two walls are completely lined with bookshelves, and I close my eyes and inhale.

The smoky scent of leather, the crisp and earthy scent of parchment.

I feel like I’ve walked into an old library.

Hunter has a huge collection of books—a lot of the classics, of course, which he undoubtedly teaches, but a lot of commercial fiction as well, which surprises me. Then of course there’s nonfiction, books on teaching, and a few self-help books as well.

Interestingly, no books on the BDSM lifestyle—at least not sitting out in plain view.

“I love this place,” I say. “What a perfect place to do your work.”

“I’ve graded many papers in that chair,” he says. “Put together many lesson plans. And…it’s where I wrote my novel.”

A grin splits my face. “Hunter, that’s fantastic! Can you tell me about it?”

“It’s funny.” He shakes his head. “I haven’t told anyone about it, other than my friend Logan. But it just kind of popped out of my mouth with you.”

“I’m honored. Truly. What did you write about?”

“It’s historical erotic fiction,” he says.

My cheeks burn when he says the word “erotic.” “Really? Romance?”

“There’s a love story, but I wouldn’t call it a romance. I’ve done a lot of research into alternate sexual lifestyles in the past.”

“I’d love to read it sometime.”

“It’s actually under contract with Peck and Gold here in New York. It releases in a few months. Under a pen name, of course.”

“Erik with a K?” I smile.

He laughs. “No. And not Phantom, either. Damn. Why do I want to tell you?”

“Baby steps, Hunter. But I’d love to read it. I’m absolutely impressed. The thought of writing a book is so daunting.”

“But you’re a writer, Frankie. You write for the magazine.”

I shake my head. “I think my longest article was about five thousand words. You’re talking about an eighty- or ninety-thousand-word novel.”

“Actually, this one is more like a hundred and twenty thousand words.”

“Color me impressed,” I say. “You’re amazing.”

“Don’t say that. You haven’t read it.”

“Just writing that many words is amazing.”

He lets out another low laugh. “Like I said, you haven’t read it. Early reviews have been promising, though. My agent and the publisher are pleased.”

“I know a lot of publishers in the city,” I say. “I know Anita from Peck and Gold.”

“I’ve been working with Greta Boss.”

“Hmm, I don’t know her. But this is something else we have in common, although like I said, I’m not sure I could write a whole book.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“I don’t really write fiction,” I say. “The stuff I write for the magazine is usually investigative journalism or fluff pieces.”

“What’s a fluff piece?” he asks.

“Pop-culture pieces. Things our readers like. Stuff with a lot of information but not much substance. You know. Fluff.”

He approaches me, his eyes narrowing. “Do you consider the article you’re writing on the BDSM lifestyle to be fluff?”

“That’s actually a good question. I’ve done a lot of research, so I consider it investigative. But I can’t deny that while I wouldn’t call it fluff, it’s definitely got mass appeal.”

“Would it upset you to know I’ve never read your magazine?”

“Of course not. Our readership is mostly women, first of all, and you’re a scholar. We don’t write scholarly articles.”

“Just because I’m a scholar doesn’t mean I don’t like a little fluff once in a while.” He points to his shelves of commercial fiction. “Check me out. John Grisham, Stephen King, and Dean Koontz are some of my favorites.”

“You have any books on…BDSM?”

“Of course I do.” He opens a small barrister’s bookcase, takes out a book, and hands it to me. “This is one of the best ones out there.”

I run my fingers over the cover. “Alternative Sexual Lifestyles.”

“It gets into a lot of different things,” he says, “some of which might make you uncomfortable. I know they made me uncomfortable. The section on BDSM is excellent, though.”

“May I borrow this?”

“Absolutely, but I want it back.”

I wrinkle my forehead. “Of course I’m going to give it back to you, Hunter.”

“Right. I didn’t mean to imply that you wouldn’t. I’m just kind of weird about my books.”

“No need to explain.”

“Now…” He grins. “Let me show you my bedroom.”