Page 124 of Pinkie Promise

HUNTER:Please do NOT get the local paper this week.

HUNTER:I love you :)

A giggle tickles in my chest as I text him back,why? lol.

His text bubble pops up and disappears a dozen times before his message comes through.

HUNTER:This is physically fucking painful for me to type, baby.

HUNTER:My photo’s in there.

I suppress a squeal and then send him a downpour of sparkling heart emojis.

I have never wanted to own a copy of the local paper so much in my whole time at Carter U.

HUNTER:They want to hype up a local crowd for the final game.

HUNTER:Had to let them shoot a pic because I’m the captain and I didn’t want Benson hounding my ass.

Knowing Hunter, the most effortlessly masculine man that I’ve ever met, having his photo in the local paper is probably the most mortifying thing that he’s experienced all semester. I can sense his ruddy cheeks from his gruff texts alone.

FALLON:I wanna see.

HUNTER:No, baby.

I think about it for a moment and then smile to myself.

FALLON:A pic for a pic?

HUNTER:Please God yes.

Giggling excitedly, I slip into the back office and pull my glasses out of my apron. Then I raise my phone up in front of me so that I can send Hunter a photo to drive him wild.

Two loose curls are swept on either side of my forehead and my hair is pulled back into a tight little bun. With the glasses on my face and the diner uniform on my body I’m pretty sure that I’m the epitome of Hunter’s sexy nerd fantasy.

I can see his texts popping non-stop at the top of my screen, and I picture him finishing up in his dad’s workshop, sat on a stool by one of the trucks, knee bouncing in a frenzy as he waits for a naughty-but-nice picture of his girlfriend.

I pop open two buttons, tilt my head, and snap the picture.

But just before I return to our text thread the screen of my phone goes completely black. An almost-empty battery sporting one red bar of juice flashes in the centre of my cell before disappearing again, making me know that it’s out of charge.

I blink at my own reflection in the black screen, a little taken aback by the sudden shutdown, until my eyes flick over to my manager’s desk, thinking that potentiallyshe’llhave a charger in one of her sockets, and that maybe I can slip it into my phone for a couple of minutes.

But before I can even begin to scour the wall for a plug, something else entirely catches my attention.

My breathing falters as I do a double-take.

I tuck my phone back inside my pocket and I move tentatively over to the desk.

Excluding the first ever shift that I had when she was familiarising me with the place, Willa, the owner of the diner, is a rare sight for me to behold. Still, I don’t exactly want to get caught snooping in her office, so I quickly chance a glance behind me to ensure that I’m alone and then I pad the rest of the distance to the desk, cheeks warming the second that I see it.

It’s the paper that Hunter was talking about, and right there on the front page is the headlineCAN THE CARTER RIDGE RANGERS SCORE THEIR FIRST CHAMPIONSHIP VICTORY?

My heart pounds wildly in my chest as my eyes drop to the photo, a perfect black and white capture of Hunter beside the hockey bus. He’s flushed with embarrassment and the most handsome man that I’ve ever seen. The thick column of his neck is arched slightly backward so that he’s looking down at the lens, his sparkling eyes almost amused, but too gracious to start smirking.

He’s the most beautiful person in the entire world.

How on earth is he in love with me?

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