Page 44 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
The smooth marble of the kitchen island separates us. But as we stand here with our eyes locked, it feels like less. I swear the air between us shimmers with heat like it does over an asphalt road in summer. I’m hit with an intense urge to climb right over the counter, grab his face in my hands, and see how that beard feels against my cheeks as I kiss him.
I feel the blush rising like mercury in an old thermometer—moving slowly and steadily from my chest to my neck to my cheeks. It’s too much to hope Hunter doesn’t see it. His eyes dip just slightly. Yep—he sees it. His tiny smirk tells me he also might have guesses as to why I’m now furiously blushing.
It only intensifies my urge to kiss him. Which makes me blushmore. I resist the urge to fan my cheeks.
“How’s your ankle?” Hunter asks.
“Fine.”
“Really fine, or stubborn Merritt fine?”
“Oh, you want to talk about being stubborn?”
“No need to talk,” he says. “It’s a fact. You're stubborn.”
“It takes a kettle to know a pot.”
He chuckles. “Not how the phrase goes, but okay.”
“My ankle is fine, Hunter. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”
“Okay, then,” he says. Then he turns and walks toward the back door without a word.
“Am I supposed to follow you?” I call after him.
I barely hear his grunt.
Where is he even going? I don’t catch up until he’s halfway across the expanse of wide lawn behind the house.
“Hey, aren’t we going the wrong way? The house is back there,” I say, a little out of breath as I match his pace.
This earns me some side-eye, which I had no idea could be flirty. But the look in his eyes makes my stomach flip.
We reach a large shed I’ve never really noticed. Hunter walks into the dark building, and I follow right on his heels, bumping into him when he stops suddenly. Now I’ve got a mouthful of flannel. Seriously—it’s autumn but not even remotely cool. What’s with the man’s love of flannel?
“Oof,” I say, taking a little step back.
“Sorry,” he says. “Forgot where the switch is.”
Hunter must locate it because the room illuminates with the kind of buzzing fluorescent light that gives me headaches. I blink and rub my eyes as he walks further inside, stopping just before an ancient lawn mower.
He points. “Here’s your job.”
I stare, my gaze bouncing between Hunter and the hunk of junk. He can’t be serious. “I thought I was going to help with renovations. Like Eloise did.”
“Lo mostly picked things out, took photos for Instagram, and talked my ear off.”
“But she—”
“And when Ididgive her a job to do,” he continues, “she didn’t question me. She did what I asked. No arguments.”
I hate being compared to my sisters. Especially if, in the comparison, I come up lacking. My competitive drive kicks in.
I walk over—maybestompis a more apt term—and take Hunter’s place by the handlebar or whatever it’s called. He steps back.
“I’ll do it,” I say.
Hunter raises a brow. “You know how to mow a lawn?”
