“Damn, Sailor. Way to crap on carpe diem.” Hunter reached over to pat my thigh, and I inwardly winced.

I was wearing yoga pants and a bland DriFit shirt and looked like Ed Sheeran in tights. He, on the other hand, looked like he was attending the Oscars. Hunter headed toward the highway at a speed more fitting for a plane taking off.

“So how come the daughter of the infamous Troy Brennan is such a dork?” he asked conversationally.

“First of all, my father is a reputable businessman unless proven otherwise.” I repeated the words Dad had told me to say ever since I was old enough to talk. People felt the urge to poke and prod about the patriarch of my family like it was a national sport.

Hunter snorted, keeping his eyes on the road. “And second of all?”

“We’re not our parents. Case in point, your father runs one of the largest corporations in America, and you, in contrast, are an amateur porn star.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve seen me in action?” A grin curved over his face.

“Nope. You asked me not to Google you, remember?”

“Before I realized you could handle me. Shame. New customers get the first ride free.”

“I’ll pass. I hear the movie is better.”

He howled with laughter, his voice sexy and gruff. Determined to ignore the butterflies swarming in my chest, I stared out the window, munching on the skin around my thumbnail.

“For your information, Alice, the chick you caught me checking out on Saturday, is just a friend.”

“Does that mean you haven’t slept with her?” My eyes were still trained on the darkness outside, but hope flared in my stomach. We were driving outside of Boston, up north.

“Nah, I’ve slept with her plenty, but she’s a total herb. Plus, she doesn’t use my balls as Baoding balls like you do. With you, I’m outmatched, outwitted, and outrageously irritated.”

“So what are you saying? That I’m too smart and mouthy to be your friend?”

“You’re too everything. I’m happy to pop your cherry, but let me give you a piece of advice—you need to tone the intensity down. I think the only thing I can beat you at is polo.”

“And a fistfight,” I mused, not correcting his assumption that I was a virgin.

You shouldn’t care, and he should never find out.

“Debatable.” He side-eyed me.

“Anyway, I know how to horseback ride.” I pressed my furnace-hot cheek against the cool window. Whenever I was around Hunter, I felt like my IQ dropped forty points. Nature was a jackass like that. My brain told me to stay the hell away, but my body begged to reproduce with this beautifully destructive male specimen.

“Polo takes more than being an accomplished equestrian.”

“I can take down a galloping horse blindfolded with one arrow,” I reminded him. “So technically, I can still beat you at polo.”

He laughed again, shaking his head.

“Never met a girl who can be so ice cold and fire hot at the same time. One second I think you’re for sure gonna faint if I touch your hand, the other I’m certain you’re about to kill me in my sleep. You’re a trip, CT.”

Hunter parked my car on a graveled road outside an old tavern in the middle of nowhere. The Tudor-style pub’s chimney produced a white trail of smoke, spiraling up to a cloudless, starless sky. There was the faint noise of crickets, the highway beyond the trees, and maybe an owl.

“How do you know about this place? I’ve lived here my entire life and never heard of it. You barely even know Boston.” I unfastened my seatbelt. As I said it, I realized the implication of this truth. Hunter had grown up away from his family, in a foreign land, with strangers.

Yesterday, Aisling had told us she got to spend her childhood in Boston entirely by chance. An all-girl boarding school opened in our area before she hit first grade. It helped that her parents went easier on her academically, since she was a girl, and Gerald never put pressure on her to join the family business. But Cillian and Hunter were both sent abroad promptly after their sixth birthday, and while Cillian completed his high school education in New England, Hunter was sent all the way to California so his parents didn’t have to deal with him.

Hunter slid out of the car. “I was on the road with my nanny coming back from a polo match this one time when I was a kid. Our car broke down, and it was pissing rain, so we went in and she let me have French fries, a greasy burger, and a milkshake. It was the first time I had French fries. Up until then, it was only the organic bullshit the personal chef made. Da happened to be in the area, so he picked us up himself. It was the first time he ever did that—like, spent time with me in the middle of the day and shit.”

He frowned, like he’d just realized why this place was special for him.

For all his formidable reputation, my father had rarely missed any of my tough tumbler classes. He let me have whatever treats I wanted, and had a second gig as my personal chauffeur until I got my license. We spent Saturdays going to Sam’s MMA tournaments, and both my parents were constant fixtures in our lives.

“Anyway, every time I visit my parents, I come here. Sometimes I take Aisling. I don’t really have a crew here, so when she can’t make it, I come alone.”

He pushed the old wooden door open. We ambled into an orange-lit, loud pub with three long rows of hand-carved wooden tables and matching benches. It looked like an inn straight out of a Game of Thrones episode, complete with loud Gaelic music and workmen gulping ale from pints. The scent of smoked meat, warm beer, and sweat curled into my nostrils.

I felt my body stiffening. I hated loud, crowded places.

Especially loud, crowded places jam-packed with strange men.

Especially seeing as I was here with soft-palmed Hunter, who was about as protective as a piece of used gum.

Every bone in my body screamed at me to turn around and do a U-turn. I wasn’t a scaredy cat, but I was the only woman in this place, and I knew I’d invite some commentary with my boyish attire and wild hair. Hunter nudged me forward, asking the waiter who came to meet us at the door where we could sit.

“Just wherever, man. Place’s packed.” A pimply teenager with two trays full of mushy peas, mashed potatoes, and roasts floated around the room, yelling the order numbers that came out of the kitchen through the chatter, laughter, and music.

We sat down, sandwiched between two old men who talked over their beers and a pack of construction workers, their faces and clothes covered in dust. The two who sat by Hunter and me looked young and had a Southern twang. A pile of foamed, empty glasses of beer sat between them as a barrier. They were obviously intoxicated, based on their slurring and slow conversation.

I fidgeted with my fingers under the table. Hunter ordered both of us root beer, earning an approving smile from me. He proceeded to frown at the menu, fingering the wooden horse peeking through his dress shirt. Rolling my thumb over the edge of the menu, I watched the little horse pressed against the blanket of his fair chest hair, and idly wondered where my brain was, because I definitely didn’t bring it with me to this pub. I finally understood the phrase stupid hot.

Hunter’s hotness made me stupid.

“What’s up with the horse?” I cleared my throat, frowning at my menu before he could catch me ogling him.

Hunter withdrew his hand from it, realizing what he was doing.

“Oh, this old shit?” He chuckled, snatching the root beer the waiter gave us and taking a drink to buy time. “It’s nothing.”

“Tell me how you got it anyway.” I linked my fingers together, placing my chin over my knuckles. The guy next to me burped loudly, a warm gust of meat-breath fanning the side of my face.

I breathed through my mouth, trying not to gag.

“When I was a kid, whenever I was home from boarding school, my parents used to throw a nanny or two on my ass so they wouldn’t have to spend time with me. On my sixth…no, eighth nanny, Da decided I needed to learn how to play polo. I was being kind of a prick about it. That summer, Nanny Number Eight—shit if I remember her name, but she was Swedish—had to physically wrestle me into the car before practice every day. I hated horses with a passion. What’s to like about the fuckers? They smell, they sleep while standing, and have no gag reflex—which, if I may say, makes them rad fuck buddies, but horrible dining mates. But I digress. So I guess my Swedish nanny was starting to get a little worried for her job because I was displaying resistance—also known as being a goddamn kid. One day she gave me this Dala horse as a gift. Told me the Swedish believe it brings good luck, and I’d never fall from a horse if I wore it. Mind you, I believed in Santa until I was, like, thirteen, so of course I bought it.”

“And did you? Fall from a horse, I mean?”

He looked up from the menu, his eyes glittering with mischief. “Nope. Zero scratches. No car accidents, either.”

“You remember.” I stared at him pointedly. I knew the truth of my statement. It burned in my bones.

“Remember what?” His face was carefully blank.