Page 46 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
With a laugh, he drops the ramp of the trailer and climbs up. “Again, as much as I’d like to accept, I really can’t.”
“Do you know anyone who could?”
“No—you don’t understand. I already take care of the yard. Twice a month during the winter, once a week in summer. You’re welcome to give me a raise though, if you’re offering.”
It takes a moment to sink in. When it does, my glaring eyes move right to the house, where I swear I see Hunter ducking away from the window.
“You’re here now to dothislawn?”
“I am. Want me to take care of the mower for you? That thing is ancient. I forgot your grandmother had asked me to haul it to the dump. But if you want to keep it for sentimental reasons or something, I’ll put it back in the shed.”
Hunter is a dead man.
* * *
I findHunter in the kitchen, spreading grout between the backsplash tiles like he wasn’t just spying on me. He doesn’t move or turn though I know he heard me slam the door and stomp in here.
I open my mouth to say whatever irritated words tumble out of my head when Hunter says, still with his back to me, “Versailles tile.”
I pause, wishing my eyes had laser beam properties so I could glare holes through the back of Hunter’s flannel shirt. In case I had any question about Hunter messing with me, I have zero now.
“You knew there’s a lawn care service.”
“I did.”
“And that it was coming today.”
“Yep.”
Oh, I want to kill him.
Why do I also want to kiss him just as much?
I weigh my options: Escalate the prank war. Tell Hunter off with a string of angry verbiage. Order him—as his boss—to do some other form of labor as punishment.
Or … I could play dirty.
This last option sounds like the most fun. And I know just how to hit Hunter where it hurts.
“Well that’s good.” I sink onto one of the stools at the island. “I really wanted to push through and finish but …” With a heavy sigh, I lift my foot, propping it on the rung of another stool. “My ankle is really bothering me.”
Hunter drops the tool in his hand and spins to face me. I make sure I'm wincing as he does. I almost feel guilty because of the concern on his face.Almost.
“Stay there. I’ll get you some ice,” he says.
The new fridge hasn’t arrived yet, so this means a trip to the carriage house.
“There’s an ice pack in my freezer,” I call after him. He’s already halfway out the door. “And will you bring me a Diet Dr Pepper?”
He grunts a response, and the door slams behind him. When he returns a few minutes later, he’s breathless and there’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. Like he ran to the carriage house and ran back. Again, I have to squash the guilt trying to make its presence known.
The sound of the riding mower out back is a good reminder of why I don’t need to spend even a second feeling bad.
Hunter comes to a quick stop in the doorway, staring. I hold up his phone, which he had the misfortune of leaving unlocked. I’ve already changed my contact name to The Best Woman in the World and added a silly photo of me making a duck face—for the first and last time ever. I’m not sure who thinks that look is attractive, but it’s perfect for Hunter’s phone.
He still hasn’t moved. I’m not sure if he’s stunned into just staring because I’ve got his work playlist blasting through the Bluetooth speaker or because he’s realizing I had to walk across the kitchen on my supposed bad ankle to retrieve his phone.
“Nice playlist! I didn’t know you were a Swiftie.” The man’s entire musical library consists of Taylor Swift. Well—Taylor and a handful of Otis Redding songs, which makes for an interesting combination.
