Stop.

Don’t go there.

Forcing myself back to the present, I cross the front porch. My sense of misplacement grows when a beautiful woman opens the door, giving me an appraising look. Her blonde hair is curled, cascading down her back, and her tight black skirt and blouse make her look like a hostess. A very sexy hostess.

My black leggings, hoodie, and sneakers feel grubby beside her skirt and heels. I’d wanted to be prepared. That thought seems silly now. Did I think Shane was going to greet me at the car, smack my ass, and tell me to start running?

Eyeballing the woman, I wonder if she’s prey too. If she sheds her heels and bolts into the thick Maine greenery at his command. How far does she get before he catches her? How far will I get before he catches me?

“I’m Margot. You must be Claire.” Her voice is neutral, face unsmiling.

I nod, wanting to turn on the cheerfulness that’s second nature after years as a teacher. My instinct is always to ease the tension, smooth over an awkward situation, make everybody happy. But I’m trying to work on my people-pleasing tendencies. They haven’t done much for me. Turns out, never rocking the boat doesn’t mean you’re a great sailor. Only means it takes longer to learn who will toss you overboard at the first sign of rough waters. Probably something I should have learned in my twenties. Better now than never.

“I’m Shane’s assistant. He requested I show you to your room and help you settle in.” With that explanation, she turns, walking farther into the house.

“Sounds great,” I say to the back of her head.

Purse over my shoulder, suitcase catching on the doorway, I enter my home for the next month. Despite its intimidating exterior, the house is cozy, with overstuffed leather couches and cherry hardwood floors. Beneath the intentionally casual styling, there’s an element of luxury suggesting Shane won’t go broke paying me. Margot breezes me through the downstairs. Kitchen, dining room, living room, two bathrooms, and a gym. I grow more impressed with each room but try not to show it. Once we’re upstairs, Margot pauses at the landing.

She gestures to the left. “That’s Mr. Underwood’s room. You’ll be over here, next to the library.”

Gym and a library?

We go right, her high heels clicking. The door to the library is open when we pass, and I sneak a peek. It’s more of an office, a large desk the focal point of the room, though there are gorgeous built-ins stuffed with books. When she pushes open the door to my room, I’m stunned. The room is light and airy, with off-white walls and two glass-paned doors leading to what looks like a balcony. A fluffy cream rug covers the floor, a leather easy chair rests in the corner, and the pine dresser and nightstand have to be antiques.

A black folder lies on the bed, stark against the quilt’s blue-and-gray kaleidoscope. Curiosity has me walking across the room, vaguely aware of Margot moving toward the dresser.

“He asked me to review the process with you, if that’s all right.”

For the first time since my arrival, Margot seems uncertain. A glance in her direction reveals a flush creeping up her neck. Maybe she isn’t prey.

Dropping my luggage, I kick off my shoes and climb on the bed. Settling cross-legged, I give in to my desire to make friends. Just a little bit.

“Sounds good. Sit down. Those heels look killer.”

That coaxes a smile from her. It’s fleeting but feels like a success. If I’m sharing space with Margot for the next month, I’d like things to be cordial enough that it doesn’t feel like I’m asking for a table for ten without a reservation.

Slipping out of her heels, she joins me on the bed. A black smartwatch is in her hand. She catches me looking at it, and her blush deepens.

“This is how he’ll summon you for a hunt. May I have your phone?”

I blink at the watch. “ ‘Summon’?”

Even though I’ve already committed, complete with a signed contract, the situation feels real now. This isn’t the casual kink I settled into over the course of a marriage. I’ve gone from Keith asking, “Want to go camping this weekend?” to being summoned by Shane, whenever his heart—or cock—desires.

What the hell am I doing?

Eyeballing Margot’s lithe figure and gorgeous curves, I wonder if Shane’s going to ask for a refund after he catches me and my clothes come off. Reminding myself that he’s hired me because I’m a fantastic chase, not because of my appearance, I hand her my phone.

I can do this.

“When he wants to hunt, he’ll text you. The text will come through on the watch. Run will appear on the watch face, followed by a number. The number is how many minutes of a head start he’s giving you.” Margot’s cheeks are tomato red, but her voice is matter-of-fact.

“Okay,” I say. “Can I ask why you’re explaining this? Shouldn’t he be doing it?”

“He prefers minimal contact with prey outside of hunting sessions.”

That makes me laugh. I know it’s true, per the contract, but I’m surprised she said it so bluntly.

“So I’m just prey from here on out? Did I leave my name at the door?” I can’t keep from teasing.

“No.” She stiffens like she’s made a mistake. “Well, yes, but—”

I hold out a wrist. “I’m kidding. As long as the money hits my account in a month, he can call me a chicken nugget for all I care.”

Margot lets out a huff that sounds like it wants to be a laugh, then grows serious again as she passes my phone back to me. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

Pocketing my phone, I study the watch while she finds her words.

“Why are you doing this? And where did Shane find you? He said you weren’t a professional, so I should go slow in case you had questions.”

I’m doing this because my ridiculously optimistic ass thought that even though my husband cheated on me physically, he wouldn’t cheat me financially.

And Shane found me because Keith got hammered at the firm Christmas party two years ago and decided to tell his bosses and coworkers that the “hunting trip” we’d taken over Thanksgiving wasn’t for deer.

I’d almost choked him with my festive scarf when I walked over and caught the end of the conversation. The paralegal was there that night, though I hadn’t known they were fucking at that point. She’d worn a slinky black dress. I’d come dressed to impress the judge of the ugly Christmas sweater contest. It’s an evening I don’t want to think about, let alone rehash with the flawless Margot.

“I got divorced six months ago. My ex-husband, Keith, works with Shane. When we were married, we did this type of thing.” I shrug. “You know how men talk.”

Margot chooses to ignore the fact that my ex-husband inadvertently landed me this gig, focusing on the financials, which I can appreciate. “There are other ways to make money. You know how this works, right? This isn’t just being intimate in the woods.”

If there’s another way for a teacher to make $30,000 in thirty days that doesn’t involve drug smuggling or auctioning off an organ, I haven’t heard of it.

“I know.” It’s time to come semi-clean. “But I usually wait tables every summer, and the money’s not great. Besides, I enjoy more…primal intimacy.” I repeat her phrasing, trying to be discreet. It feels pointless; we both know she just strapped a countdown-to-fuck-town watch on my wrist. “I might as well be paid for it.”

“I suppose.”

It’s clear she doesn’t understand, but I can’t make her. Explaining my need for the thrill of the hunt and the brutality of the fight feels too personal. How do I tell her that hunting is my outlet for the aggression and frustration that have accumulated over a lifetime of being nice without sounding like I’m filled with some depraved darkness?

Sometimes I wonder if the paralegal likes it too, or if Keith’s so head over heels that he’s willing to go without. I always decide it’s better not to know. Whether it happens in a bed or a bush, I don’t want to picture my ex-husband with someone younger and prettier than me. Doesn’t do great things for my self-confidence.