Page 34 of From Now On

EVE

EVE: I saw his thing.

HARLOW: Huh?

EVE: I SAW HIS THING.

HARLOW: Repeating the same thing in all caps clarifies nothing, you know.

HARLOW: Especially at seven a.m.

HARLOW: There’s no need for text yelling this early in the day.

EVE: I walked in on him.

EVE: I’m mortified.

HARLOW: WHO ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT??

EVE: Now who’s text yelling?

EVE: HUNTER.

EVE: Who else could I be talking about?

“You want coffee?”

The deep rumble of Hunter’s voice distracts me from texting Harlow. I drop my phone guiltily. It bounces off the seat and into the cupholder, almost toppling the water bottle there.

I scramble for it, terrified he’ll be able to read the all-caps messages I just sent Harlow, not relaxing until the screen is black and the device is safely tucked under my thigh.

I clear my throat, attempting some composure. “Yeah. Coffee sounds good.”

“Okay.” He flicks on the blinker for the drive-thru a few buildings down from the motel where we spent the night.

I continue staring straight ahead.

I can’t look at Hunter. I haven’t been able to look at Hunter since I got an eyeful of his giant dick.

I pretended to be asleep when he came back to bed last night, and hid in the bathroom this morning while he packed up his stuff and checked us out. My teeth have never been cleaner.

Have I imagined Hunter naked before? Yes. That night freshman year and nearly every time I’ve seen him since. He’s a tall, strapping hockey player. Proportionally, the size of his penis makes sense.

But picturing him with a huge cock was very different fromseeinghis huge cock.

And, frankly, the timing couldn’t be worse. Because I’m single. That barrier that’s always been there, blocking me, Hunter, and any sort of reality, is gone. Or, it’s gone on my end. He hasn’t said anything to suggest he’s in a relationship, but he was on a date with Holly Johnson last week.

Even if he’s not dating Holly,she’shis type. I’ve seen the girls who hang around the hockey team. I have big boobs that have always been popular with guys and a great ass in the right pair ofjeans, but Hunter could easily pass as a Calvin Klein model. Not only because there’d be a big bulge in the boxers, but because he has abs and that cut V and strong thighs and…fuck, I’m thinking about his dick again.

I bite the inside of my cheek—hard—to distract myself from the flood of inappropriate thoughts.

Because of the other, more pressing reason that Dickgate couldn’t have happened at a more inconvenient time: I’m stuck in a car with Hunter for another two hours and forty-three minutes, according to the GPS.

Stupid flat tire and stupid traffic. We should have pushed through, and then this never would have happened.

I’ll just chug my coffee and then pretend to fall asleep for the rest of the trip, I decide.

My phone keeps buzzing under my thigh, suggesting Harlow finally woke up and figured out what I was trying to tell her. But we’re stopped in the line for the drive-thru now, and I can’t text Harlow about Hunter’s dick while we’re sitting in a car together.

---