PERIPHERY | NH |

EIGHT

Niall

I feel like shit.

Well, at least that's what I said in the message I sent out to my team, apologizing and rescheduling our time that had been blocked off at the studio.

But..

I lied.

In reality, I'm standing in my closet looking at my reflection trying to figure out how to make myself go undetected in public.

Last night felt like a fever dream in my mind.

The fact that I was actually able to get Hunter to agree to go out somewhere with me was shocking to say the least. Being with her in the studio is always like a breath of fresh air, especially yesterday when she went to bat for my ideas against Will.

If anything, hearing her argue for me just showed how much she listened, how every detail I've brought to the table over the past couple of months has been set in stone with her.

Not to mention that after Will left, I tried everything I could think of to focus on anything but her — only for each and every attempt to be stolen away and replaced with the dazzling, mysterious way about the auburn haired woman next to me.

I thought my heart was going to fall out of my ass when I was so focused that my hand slipped next to hers, feeling her pinky underneath mine. When I should have pulled back, I didn't. Knowing whatever illusion I was allowing myself to reside in would be broken.

Hunter was all rules, no play.

Seeing her out in a real place made me realize just how deep I was in it when it came to her. Even though I knew it was pointless to let my mind go in any direction other than a work related relationship with her.

Watching her get tipsy and let loose from the quiet girl I had come to know made my chest feel tight, made me feel happy. Even though I knew that the feeling was one sided I couldn't help but let it happen, let myself get lost in a place that I didn't want to be found with her by my side.

Hunter made me feel like I could open up and talk about things that I didn't feel like I could with very many people, I mean, not even Parker knew about Chester who was currently sitting in the middle of my made bed.

There was just something about her that led me to believe that I could trust her — that things could just pour out of my mouth about me and my life and she would keep them in a glass high on a shelf, making sure to keep it safe from unwanted attention.

I hated the way I couldn't stop looking at her.

Every single slope and curve of her face is something I wanted to commit to my memory. The urge to reach out my hand and trace from one freckle to the next with the very tips of my fingers was so powerful — almost like I had to know if my touch gave her goosebumps like her own did to me.  

The more she drank the less she seemed to care about what she said, opening up to me to the point I couldn't believe that I would have ever thought to consider her as someone who was quiet.

It felt like she laughed more when we were alone, a victory I would relish in as long as I could until I was forced to look at the facts in front of me.

No matter what I learned about her last night, nothing stood out more than her telling me she was out of books to read. This was something that I hadn't ever thought was possible, especially not from the way she seemed to text me a picture of a different book every night.

It started after we worked alone in the studio and I'd gotten her phone number. The gentleman in me just wanted to know that she made it home safely but the arrogant part of me wanted to steal her attention away from anything that wasn't me.