Page 86 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
Hunter nods, and without thinking about it, I reach out and pluck a tiny tomato seed from his beard. He goes still, and I know my cheeks are starting to flush.
“Sorry. You had a seed.” I hold up my fingertip because now the seed is stuck there.
“Blow it off and make a wish,” he says, his dark eyes holding mine.
Isabelle giggles. “That’s eyelashes, Daddy. Not tomato seeds.”
“You’re right. But maybe tomato seeds need their own tradition. I’ll make a wish.”
And then his hand grasps my wrist, holding my hand steady as he leans forward and eats the tomato seed right off the tip of my finger.
Okay—this moment isone hundred percentnot one we should be having with Isabelle right here watching. At least, based on how my body reacts to his lips and tongue on my fingertip, with all its millions of nerve endings firing at once and shoutingMORE! MORE! MORE!
But he was quick and goes right back to eating. Isabelle laughs like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever seen, not like I’m over here completely melting down from the hot flame of desire Hunter just stoked.
“Daddy, ew!” Isabelle says. Then adds, “What did you wish for?”
Hunter’s gaze meets mine, and his eyes are part amusement, part a sort of smug pride because clearly, he can see what effect he has on me.
“I can’t say it out loud,” Hunter says, and the look in his eyes sharpens. I can almost feel his gaze on my skin like a caress. “Or it won’t come true. And I really,reallywant this one to come true.”
NINETEEN
Hunter
It takesno time at all for Merritt to cozy herself into every corner of my very ordinary life. Bringing lunches over to the beach house which we share right in the middle of a half-tiled bathroom or partially refinished floor while we peruse Lo’s design boards for decor and paint colors. Sitting on the porch swing, waiting for me to finish work and give her an end-of-the-workday kiss. Coming out to my place where she plays with Banjo and the dogs and does her best to beat Isabelle at board games. Or my favorite—walking with me on the beach, our feet bare, our fingers laced together.
I haven’t let her inside my house yet, but she’s in my heart, which is far more dangerous.
As I maneuver my truck into the crowded restaurant parking lot, my phone pings with a text. “Wanna check that?”
Merritt swipes my phone from the cup holder and shoots me the kind of grin that makes me want to pause everything and kiss her right on the mouth. “Are we already at the level of trusting each other with our messages?” she asks.
Yes.At least, I am.
To be honest, I don’t know what level we’re at. Are there levels now or is that a joke?
The last time I dated, I was in high school—basically a child. For all I know, they’ve added actual dating levels to go alongside the terribly cliché baseball analogy with the physical stuff. If so, I’m at whatever level makes me a total sucker for Merritt. The kind of sucker who wants to spend every possible second in her company even while I’m simultaneously terrified I’ll blink and realize it ended, she’s gone, and I’m alone again.
Merritt is an overachiever. Driven. Talented. She’s obviously in an in-between place right now, but I’m desperate to be a part of whatever’s next for her. If she has an inkling what that is, I don’t know about it.
But it can’t just be talking to me while I lay tile.
“You can check my phone anytime,” I say, though her face is already bent to my screen.
“Dante says he and Jasmine got us a table because it’s crowded. Have you been to this restaurant?”
“Nah. I don’t come out here much, aside from getting supplies.”
Out herebeing Savannah, where we’re meeting Dante and his girlfriend for dinner at some trendy place where I’ll probably feel out of place in my worn jeans and flannel shirt. Not that I care what a bunch of trendy hipsters think. I care more about college basketball, and to be clear, I do not care at ALL about that.
Also, from what Isabelle told me today, flannel is what the trendy hipsters are wearing now. Howsheknows this, I don’t know. But—take that, hipsters! You aligned your style to mine.
I shift my truck into park and look Merritt’s way. My phone is still in her hands, but she’s staring out the window, eyes locked on the restaurant.
“Hey, you okay?” I ask.
“You would tell me if my outfit looked stupid, right?” She looks down at her clothes and frowns.
