Page 12 of Seeing Grayscale

He nods and pushes up the sleeves of his black shirt.

We both go about serving ourselves, putting food on the provided paper plates and when I gingerly lower into the chair, he follows suit. While we eat—which, fuck, this food is better than it should be—I examine him.

Hunter is what I’ve heard Tammy say istraditionallyhandsome. He has no distinguishing features, no weird moles or crooked nose. His teeth are white and straight. I can’t find any tattoos, and I don’t see the telltale bump of nipple piercings through his tight shirt.

He’s clean-cut, except for that beard. It’s not long enough to style but not short enough to be considered scruff. It throws me off.

Everything about him points at a cleanshaven face, yet he’s got facial hair. Like, it’s a rebellious act or a disguise. Hunter is taller than me, but I’d peg him at being just an inch or two over six feet. His body is obviously fit, although not to the point I’d say it was his favorite pastime. He’s not a gym rat; that much is clear.

Out of his entire appearance, though, the thing that stands out the most is his eyes. Textbook hazel with slightly more green mixing with the honey brown.

“How old are you?” I ask abruptly, and he takes his time chewing before delicately wiping his mouth.

“Twenty-nine, why?”

“I thought you were forty.” I shrug and take a sip of my water.

Chuckling, he leans back in the chair. “Forty?”

“It’s the beard. Makes you look old as fuck.”

“And how about you, then? Sixteen?” he teases with a little smirk.

I narrow my eyes—or try to—and scoff. “I’m twenty-two.”

“Duly noted.” I know he isn't lying about his age when he cracks a smile that isn’t half-assed or pacifying. And there, desperately trying to pop free, are a pair of dimples.

“Yes. So funny,” I drawl before taking an aggressive bite of my pizza.

“Are you from here?” he changes the subject.

“Yup.”

“Olympia for me.”

“Do you still live there?” I ask.

“No, I live in Seattle now.”

It seems like he’s not willing to hand out much, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore, so I focus on my food.

“My dad is the governor,” he says in a rush before making his nervous hair-raking move again.

I lower my fork, feeling the pasta solidify into thin rods. “Seriously?”

“It might’ve come up tomorrow, so I just thought I’d be straightforward.”

Wealth and power. I was right.

He’s also a trust fund baby.

I won’t pretend to know a thing about politics, but those red flags I saw the other day? They’re back with a vengeance. Men likethatdon’t help people likeme, and certainly not the offspring of them. Sure, Hunter has said all the right things and comes off like a decent human, but he’s fromthatworld.

The one with color.

The one that left me to rot.

“You can go now,” I rasp, pushing away from the table.

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