Page 13 of Ruined By the Hunk

My heart gives a little skip at that. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but Bridget isn’t wrong. This feels special.

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my tone calm. “It’s only been a few days, but he’s been respectful. He hasn’t pushed me. Last night he asked to see me and I asked for a night to myself. He seemed okay with it. It’s like he’s letting me set the pace and I didn’t realize how much that would mean to me until now.”

Bridget’s smile softens a bit and she squeezes my arm. “He sounds perfect, Alice. Seriously.”

I look away, biting my lip, a little bit embarrassed to be feeling this way. “We kissed the other night and it was magical. I’m kind of hoping we do more than kiss tonight.”

Could I sound more like a teenager with her first crush?

Bridget lets out an excited squeal and gives me a gentle nudge on the shoulder. “Alice, it’s okay to want that, you know. You deserve to feel excited, to be with someone who makes you feel that way. If you’re ready for more, go for it.”

She’s right, of course. I’ve been cautious for so long, always careful, always afraid of getting hurt. But with Hunter, things felt different. He makes me feel like he truly cares about who I am and not who he wants me to be. Maybe tonight is a chance tolet myself be vulnerable in a new way, to trust that he won’t take advantage of me.

Bridget squeezes my arm one more time. “Just remember, you’re in control. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. And don’t let him have it too easy, okay? Make him work for it.”

I laugh, feeling my anticipation build. “Thank you, Bridget. Really. I needed to hear that.”

She winks. “That’s what friends are for. Now go knock his socks off tonight.”

Tonight, I will let myself be open to whatever happens. I won’t let anything hold me back.

Hunter

Everything’s set. I’ve got my mom’s meatloaf in the oven, mashed potatoes staying warm on the stove, and fresh rolls in a basket in the oven. Alice had mentioned she loves comfort food, so I figured I’d try to make dinner as cozy as possible.

When the doorbell rings, my heart gives an extra thump. I wipe my hands on a dish towel, trying to keep cool and head over to open the door. And there she is, standing on my doorstep in a T-shirt and jeans, smiling softly. She looks incredible.

“Hey,” I say, a smile breaking across my face. “Come on in.”

“Hey,” she replies, her voice soft and warm. “It smells amazing in here.”

“I hope you like what we’re having. You mentioned loving comfort food when we were at the diner.”

She seems genuinely pleased. “Comfort food is exactly what I need tonight,” she says, her voice soft and genuine.

I bring the dishes to the table. “This is perfect, Hunter,” she says, her face lighting up. “It reminds me of Sunday dinners with my Granny. She made meatloaf every week. You didn’t need to go to so much trouble. Thank you.”

The joy in her voice is everything. I never realized how much I would want this— to make someone happy with something as simple as dinner.

“You're worth the trouble,” I say, hoping I don’t sound too eager. “I just want to make you happy.”

Her cheeks go a little pink, and she smiles, glancing down as she helps herself to a slice of meatloaf. We both dig in, and I’m relieved to see that she enjoys it, savoring each bite.

“Tell me about your week,” I say, wanting to hear her voice, her thoughts. “How’s the library coming along?”

She lights up, her eyes sparkling as she tells me about getting everything ready for the school year, talking about the new books she ordered and how excited she is to see the kids’ faces light up when they come in. As she talks, I find myself watching her, caught up in the way her expressions change when she’s passionate about something. There’s this brightness, this warmth in her that’s hard to look away from.

“…And the teachers are already stopping by, asking for recommendations,” she says laughing. “Some of them even picked books for themselves. I feel like an adult librarian sometimes.”

I smile, picturing her in her element, surrounded by books and eager readers. “You love it,” I say. “The way you talk about it, it’s like you were made for this.” I reach across the table, just brushing her hand with mine.

She meets my gaze, and for a moment, we just look at each other. Her hand is still warm under mine and I feel this urge to pull her closer. But I hold back, letting her be the one to pull away when she’s ready. She doesn’t, though, not immediately.We just sit there, our hands barely touching, the room quiet, as everything fades into the background.

Eventually, she pulls her hand back, smiling softly, and we go back to eating, the silence comfortable and warm. She tells me more stories about her week, little anecdotes that have me laughing, and I share some stories from the clinic. Her laugh makes me feel invincible.

When we’re done, she offers to clear the plates. I tell her I’ve got it, but she insists on at least helping. We work side by side in the kitchen, washing dishes together, and there’s this easy rhythm between us that feels right. I can picture us doing this every night, sharing meals, sharing moments, just being together.

Once the dishes are done, I lean against the counter, watching her as she dries her hands on a dish towel.

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