Page 47 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
Hunter gives me a wary look and then sets a bag of ice on the counter along with a can of Diet Dr Pepper. “I have ice. And your drink.”
“Thank you,” I say sweetly. “So, what’s your favorite album? Personally, I like1989. It’s just so … catchy.”
With a grunt, Hunter carefully lifts my ankle and sits on the stool next to me, settling my foot in his lap. Unlike the other day, he doesn’t take off my shoe and sock. Instead, he grabs the bag of ice and gently places it over my ankle. I try not to suck in a breath when his other hand brushes over the bare skin just below my leggings.
“This okay?” he asks, not meeting my gaze. One of his fingers traces a tiny circle on my skin.
I bite my lip. “Mm-hm.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, still not looking at me. “I wouldn’t have had you do that job if I knew it would hurt you.”
His kind words make something squeeze tight in my chest. “Hunter—”
“It’s my fault. I’m sorry, Mer. It was supposed to be a joke—I knew Mitch was coming to mow today and figured it would just be a few minutes. He was running late, and now you’re hurt as a result of my actions. I’m sorry,” he says again.
His fingers continue running over the tiny slice of skin between my sock and my leggings, making tiny circles and likewise making my breath catch. It’s just part of my leg. Not a particularly sensitive area. Or, it shouldn’t be. Maybe it’s just the fact that it’sHuntertouching me. And being so sweet and thoughtful …
Leaning forward, I grab his hand and squeeze. “Hey. Please don’t feel bad. I’m really okay.”
“No—I shouldn’t have let you. I knew it, and I still had you do something that could have hurt you.”
I give his hand another squeeze, wishing I could lace our fingers together or take his hand and press it to my cheek. There’s no way to shove down the guilt now. I feel awful. I’d forgotten how tender Hunter’s heart really is.
“Shake it off,” Hunter says, squeezing back.
“What?”
When he looks up, the spark of mischief in his eyes makes my heart go haywire. I am totally thrown. So when he says, “My favorite Taylor Swift song,” it takes me a minute to realize he’s answering my earlier question.
It takes me another minute to realize that he’s been messing with me. Again.
“At least, that’s my pick from the1989album. My favorite album altogether is probablyLover, but I have a lot of respect forReputation,” Hunter says, with the same easy confidence with which he talked about tile choices.
A real Renaissance man, this guy. Can tile a backsplash, carry an injured woman off the beach in his arms, and has Serious Opinions on Taylor Swift albums.
“You know I wasn’t hurt.”
“I figured it out.”
“What gave me away? Was it the fact I got up to get your phone?”
“That—and I was watching you outside. You seemed fine. I mean, other than the fact that you can’t mow a lawn to save your life.”
“Hey!” I protest, but I really can’t argue. The man is tenderhearted. It’s true. He’s also some kind of evil genius. I lean a little farther forward and poke him in the ribs. He used to have a ticklish spot right around …there.
He giggles. A very manly giggle, but definitely a giggle and not a chuckle or laugh. He grabs my hand and holds it tight as I try to pull free. Not like I could.
Not like Iwantto.
“Versailles tile,” he says.
“Versailles tile,” I agree, loving that we have new code words, just like we used to back then. “Truce?”
He raises a brow. “Is that what you want? A truce?”
I shrug because I honestly don’t know. I mean, does a truce mean we have to stop playing? Because this is fun. I also don’t think I can beat Hunter at this game.
“Whatdoyou want, Mer?” This question feels loaded. And it doesn’t at all feel like he’s asking about the pranks.
