Page 76 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
His voice steadies me, his words the reassurance I didn’t know I needed. As fiercely independent as I am, I could get used to the idea of Hunter’s protection.
“Breathe,” he says.
I do. “Thank you.”
Isabelle stands on the porch, a blanket held snugly around her shoulders like it’s the dead of winter in New York, not a humid Georgia fall. Hunter’s pace quickens as he crosses the driveway and climbs the steps, but only after looking at me over his shoulder as though to tell me he’s still got me.
I follow behind, taking the ramp with Vroom and stopping a little ways back. However this meeting goes, it needs to happen on Hunter’s terms. On Isabelle’s. Not mine.
I watch as he scoops Isabelle into his arms. She wraps around him like a baby koala, her head dropping onto his shoulder. My heart climbs out of my chest and flops around on the floor of the porch like a caught fish.
On his own, Hunter is dead sexy.
But Hunter as adad?
I … had no idea this was a thing I’d love. But I do. Heat surges through my body, fueled by some chemical reaction I cannot control. The meaning behind it feels biological. Primal.
I want to have this man’s babies.
Or at least, my biology has deemed it desirable, for the continuation of the species, to procreate with his biology.
No. That’s inaccurate. It istrue—some of this has to be related to my genetic programming. But I am, immediately and consciously as athinkingwoman (who, mind you, has said for the past eight years I didn’t want children), very muchconsumedby the sudden idea of babies (and baby-making) with this man.
The feeling is startling and strange. Me?Wanting babies?What is happening to me?
Except, it shouldn’t feel so foreign. There was a time I did want kids. When I played M.A.S.H. and dreamed about raising a family the way you do when you’re too young to understand all the ways your dreams can go wrong.
But all that dreaming stopped when I saw a pregnant Cassidy marrying Hunter. Actually, the seeds might have been planted when my parents split. Hunter and Cassidy—and Isabelle—were just the fertilizer the seeds needed to grow into a staunch conviction that family life was not for me. Too much risk. Too much hurt.
But this feeling, this yearning—it makes the risk feel worth it.
It’s a strange moment—the sharp ache of what I wantedbeforeleapfrogging over all those years I wanted something else and landing here, right now, wrapping around my heart in a way that makes me wonder if I was only ever pretending I didn’t want a family. It’s trippy to have it all happening in the presence of the very kid who kicked me off the family path to start with.
Hunter turns toward me, a gentle smile on his face. “Izzy, this is my friend, Merritt.”
Friend. Hm. Okay. The baby-making urges pump the brakes.
Logically,friendis a solid place to start. Though, if pressed to answer, I’d tell anyone who asks: I DO NOT KISS MY FRIENDS LIKE HUNTER AND I JUST KISSED.
Isabelle lifts her head and eyes me curiously. “Are you the artist?”
Hunter stiffens the slightest bit, and when his eyes cut my way, I see a hint of sheepishness. So hehastalked about me. Enough that his daughter would recognize my name and think of me as a painter. Even if I’m not sure that’s still how I think of myself.
I like the idea of Hunter telling her about me maybe more than I should. So much so that it makes me briefly mute.
He leans toward Isabelle and whispers something in her ear.
Isabelle’s eyes go wide, then she nods, which only increases my curiosity.
“I don’t know if I’mthepainter,” I say slowly, “but I used to paint a little. It’s nice to meet you, Isabelle. I’m sorry you’re sick.”
She nods. “Me too. I’m missing game day at school. I was going to be the Monopoly man.” She sniffs and looks at Hunter. “Can I pet Vroom?”
Hunter shifts and sets her down on the porch steps, dropping down beside her and motioning for me to join them.
I nudge Sunbeam out of the way and sit down next to Isabelle, more nervous than I’ve been in I don’t know how long. The dogs were easy, but Isabelle is aperson. One with thoughts and feelings and opinions.
And one Ireallywant to like me. Which is another weird discovery. Normally, I see kids and run the other direction. They are sticky and strange, and I don’t know how to talk to them.
