Page 35 of From Now On

Not while he’s not distracted by driving, at least.

“What are you getting?”

I keep my eyes fixed on the menu. “Not sure. There are so many options.”

There’s a very quiet laugh to my left.

The menu has six choices: coffee, iced coffee, tea, iced tea, water, and soda. Not a vanilla soy latte—my usual order—in sight. I’m not lactose intolerant, but I switched to using alternatives after listening to a podcast about the dairy industry so that I’m not haunted by the cries of calves separated from their mothers.

“I’m, uh, sorry about last night. I was having trouble sleeping, so I?—”

I wave a hand in his general direction, still studiously avoiding eye contact. “Don’t apologize. It’s fine. Totally fine.I’m the one who barged in. I was half asleep and thought the bathroom door was closed because I left it that way after I used it and I—” I swallow. “I didn’t, um, see anything.”

Hunter chuckles at the obvious lie. He was standing—stark naked—about three feet from my face. The motel bathroom wasn’t exactly spacious. Obviously, I saweverything.

“Aren’t artists supposed to appreciate nudity?” he wonders.

“Well, walking in on you in the shower wasn’t exactly the same as admiringDavid.”

He’s flesh and blood and muscle. Human, not carved marble.

“Ouch.”

“No, I didn’t mean—” My phone is buzzing again, distracting me. Harlow’s definitely decoded Dickgate. “It wasn’tbad, I just meant it wasn’t thesameas looking at art.”

“Wasn’t bad,” Hunter muses.

I finally look at him. The longer I don’t, the more obvious it is I’m avoiding eye contact. And not only are we stuck in this car together for the next two hours and forty-one minutes, we’re also spending the next week in close quarters.

He’s grinning. “Thought you didn’t see anything?”

I feel like I have a fever. Sweat is prickling at the back of my neck and in my armpits. Good thing I applied three coats of deodorant while I was stalling in the bathroom earlier. “Can wepleasestop discussing this?”

“Yep. Sure.”

He’s still grinning.

I’m still hotter than a furnace.

Finally, it’s our turn to order. It’s a relief when Hunter rolls his window down, letting some cooler air in the car.

Hunter asks for a large coffee, black. I request an iced coffee with soy milk.

Hunter’s drink appears immediately. Mine doesn’t. I’m guessing the ice isn’t the delay.

“What does soy milk taste like?” he asks. “I’ve never tried it.”

“It’s…I don’t know. Bland. I’ve never drunk it plain, I just add it to my coffee. I don’t like the taste of drinking it black.”

“What about regular milk?”

“I feel bad about stealing it from baby cows. I listened to a podcast about the dairy industry and I’m…boycotting, I guess.”

“My dad grew up on a dairy farm,” Hunter tells me.

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend?—”

“You didn’t offend me. I was going to say you’re right—it’s a tough industry. On both sides. My grandparents had to sell the farm while my dad was in college. All the cows went to slaughter and their land is a giant subdivision now.”

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