Page 72 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
When I glance over, Hunter has one hand on a work table and the other on the back of his neck. “No.”
My brow furrows. “Then where do you sell them? To your clients?”
“They’re just for me. Not a job or a side hustle. It relaxes me.”
I have so many questions, but Hunter's voice is tight. There are lights flashing telling me to slow down, and a sign warning me of dangerous curves ahead. Though everything in me wants to press him—because this is what I do, the firstborn urge to fix and correct and offer practical suggestions—I make a choice to let it go.
For now.
It involves biting the inside of my lip to keep my words contained.
In the center of the room, another table is in progress. The blue is lighter here, almost clear in some places. I can’t tell for sure because the whole thing is sitting in a kind of oversized tray.
“That one’s still curing,” Hunter says.
“I won’t touch,” I say quickly. One more tabletop, a little smaller than the biggest two, sits in the back corner, looking completely finished.
“I’m planning to put that one in my house,” he says. “I just need to buy chairs.”
“I love it. I love it all. Hunter …” I get choked up for a second, and I can’t pinpoint why. I swallow, then sniff, mentally ordering my emotions to get it together.
I step closer and take both of his hands in mine, letting my fingertips trace the calluses on his. “I am blown away, yet not at all surprised by the beauty these hands created,” I say softly.
I haven’t ever thought of hands in and of themselves as being attractive. Or sexy. I mean, sure—obviously hands are important for touching, which can be very sexy. But I’ve never looked at a pair of hands and thought about what they are capable of making or building and had a visceral reaction like this.
I’m not the only one having a visceral reaction. Hunter crowds me, urging me to step backward until I’m up against his table, a little breathless.
“You don’t know what you do to me,” Hunter says, his eyes darkening. “Your words. Your touch. The way you look at me.”
“Same.”
This pulls a grin from him.Same.A simple word Hunter and I used all too often back then, like an echo, a refrain. His smile does nothing to slow what’s building between us, and it shifts into something else altogether when he suddenly takes me by the hips and lifts me until I’m sitting on his table.
“Will this hurt the finish? I don’t want to—”
He quiets me with a fingertip to my lips, tracing my mouth like he plans to memorize the shame.
“You won’t hurt it, Mer.”
But once upon a time, I really hurt him, I think, lifting my hands to cup his bearded jaw. Even if I apologized and he forgave me, it doesn’t take away the scars left behind.
What’s more, I could still hurt him. Iwillhurt him when I leave Oakley.IfI leave?
At some point, whatever this is, I need to make some decisions. Hunter and I will have to talk.
But not now.
Maybe it’s selfish or immature, but for this moment, I want only this. Only my hands on his cheeks, his hands on my hips, his eyes with their darkening desire.
When he leans into my touch, I let my hands roam over his face. Exploring, learning the curve of his cheek and the lines of his beard. I love the feel of his thick hair under my fingers. I relish in the soft groan he makes when he closes his eyes.
I never did this with him, just let myself touch his face and his hair, exploring his broad shoulders and his muscled arms. He wasn’t bearded, or so broad, or this muscular back then.
Things never got super physical aside from some kisses—we were young and I think we were both afraid of screwing up the friendship we’d built over the years by giving into the teenage hormones raging through us.
But the raging I felt back then, when he kissed me or held me, doesn’t even compare to the molten fire roaring through me now.
His eyes pop open suddenly, hazy at first and then practically glowing with intense clarity.
