Page 107 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Juliet makes a small sound in her sleep and shifts closer. I know I’m already fucked.
Three months left on our contract. Three months to figure out how to walk away from this without destroying both of us.
I should plan my exit strategy. Instead, I’m lying here thinking about room service breakfasts and the way she says my name when she’s trying not to smile.
Yeah. I’m definitely in trouble.
Chapter24
Juliet
On the plane the next day, Connor fist-bumps Hunter like nothing ever happened. I watch it from across the aisle and something slides loose in my chest. Maybe that’s progress. Maybe Hunter’s actually learning that not every mistake requires a nuclear response.
The flight back feels endless. Three days away shouldn’t feel like a lifetime, but somehow it does. I’m exhausted in that bone-deep way that comes from beingonfor seventy-two hours straight. Smiling for cameras, managing reporters, making sure Hunter doesn’t accidentally start a riot with an ill-timed comment.
Hunter just shuts his eyes and goes to sleep for the entire flight. Mind-blogging, considering how on edge I’ve been this whole trip. Babysitting him, making sure he doesn’t murder someone.
By the time we get back to the apartment, I’m done. Completely and utterly done with being professional and polished and perfect. I’m not in charge of anyone but me and so fucking glad for it.
I disappear into my room and change into a camisole and shorts. A comfortable outfit that doesn’t require a bra or shapewear or any of the other crap I’ve been wearing for days. But I still put my lipstick on. Some habits die hard.
Red lipstick has been my uniform for so many years that I feel naked without it.
I park myself in front of the TV and flip to PBS, hunting for my Swedish detective show. It’s my guilty pleasure, this slow-burn crime drama where nothing happens quickly and everyone speaks in hushed, meaningful tones. The exact opposite of my real life.
Hunter emerges from his room a few minutes later, wearing a t-shirt and gray sweatpants that should be illegal. Seriously. The fabric clings in ways that make it impossible not to notice... everything. And Jesus Christ, Ivy wasn’t kidding when she whispered that she heard about Hunter’s massive dick.
I can basically see the outline through the soft cotton. It makes me break out in a sweat and I have to force myself to look at the TV screen instead.
“What are we watching?” he asks, dropping onto the couch next to me.
“We?” I ask. More to fuck with him than anything.
He kicks out his long legs with a smug little grin. I side-eye him. He is so much taller than me, it should be illegal. “Yeah,sweetheart. It’s my downtime, too. Not to mention my TV.”
I don’t push it. “Swedish crime drama. A woman gets murdered in the first episode, and Detective Saga spends the next six episodes drinking coffee and having philosophical conversations about justice.”
“Detective Saga? Sounds riveting.”
“Don’t mock it. It’s very atmospheric.”
He settles back into the cushions, close enough that I can smell his shower gel. “Does anything actually happen?”
“Lots of things happen. They’re just... subtle.”
“Right. Subtle.” But he doesn’t change the channel, just watches with what appears to be genuine interest.
We’re about twenty minutes into the episode when Detective Saga has a hookup with her informant in an abandoned warehouse. He’s a very handsome dirtbag, and she falls for his lines, even though he’ll almost certainly turn out to be a bad guy. Once they kiss, it becomes nothing but shadows and tension and barely contained desperation.
I feel the hair on my arms rise.
“Well,” Hunter says, his voice slightly rough. “That wasn’t subtle.”
“It’s character development,” I say. My voice comes out breathier than I intended.
He glances at me, something sharp and knowing in his expression. “Character development. Right.”
Neither of us says anything in the following silence, which is loaded with unspoken thoughts. I can feel the heat radiating off him. I can sense the way his attention has shifted from the TV to me.
