Page 18 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
He's teasing. I know that. But there's heat buried in the jab, something that suggests he's been thinking about my morning routine in ways that make my skin prickle. It throws me completely off balance. I'm sure that was exactly his intention.
That's when it hits me, in a sickening wave of realization. I won't have a single moment to myself while living with him. No lazy Saturday mornings in oversized t-shirts and messy hair. No wandering around in pajama pants with yesterday's makeup still smudged under my eyes. No breaks from being perfectly composed and camera-ready.
This version of me, the polished and unbothered professional, is the only one he'll ever see. And I'll have to wear it like a second skin for the next five months. Jessa already teases me for wearing lipstick twenty four hours a day. Now I’ll have to deal with Hunter’s snide little remarks, too. The thought is exhausting.
Can I back out of the deal now? Sure, the movers have already taken half the boxes out of my apartment. But it’s probably not over till I’ve moved in with him…
Hunter jerks his head, motioning for me to follow him inside my now-empty room. The last of the boxes disappear down the hall. I rub my temples, a headache starting to bloom behind my eyes, and crouch to pick up a stack of loose hangers I forgot under the bed.
Before I can reach them, Hunter steps past me and grabs them first. No comment. No snide remark. Just picks them up, loops them on one finger, and sets them in the hallway.
I blink at him. “Thanks.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t want you to break a nail. You look like the kind of person who’d sue.”
It’s said with a smirk, but not a mean one. Which is maybe why I don’t immediately snap back.
Instead, I glance over at him. He’s reaching to adjust a stack of boxes, arm flexed, shirt riding up just enough to flash a sliver of skin. Just a hint of the V-cut under his abs. I look away immediately, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
God. No.
No, no, no. I am not that girl. I don’t care how hot he is, or how good he looks when he lifts heavy things like it’s nothing. I do not get flustered over sweatpants and biceps and a hint of hip bone.
I’m just tired. That’s all. Tired and overwhelmed and overly aware of the fact that I’m about to live with a man I can’t stand in an apartment that isn’t mine.
A man who just picked up my hangers without making it feel like a favor.
I don’t say anything. I don’t look again. But I feel the shift in the air like static before a storm. I follow him like he’s a puppet master, pulling at my strings. I feel so helpless around him. Only him. Why is that?
He closes the door and looks at me. My breath stills.
“What?” I prompt.
"Before we do anything else," he says, suddenly serious. He pulls a small velvet box from his pocket. "We need to make this look real."
My heart does something stupid when I see the ring box. It's ridiculous. This is fake. A business arrangement. But there's something about the moment that feels bigger than it should, more significant than I want it to be.
As stupid and trite as it sounds, I have always imagined someone that really loved me and wanted to commit to me being the one to propose. Most little girls have the same fantasy, I think.
He opens the box and my breath catches in my throat. The ring is absolutely stunning, almost otherworldly. A huge marquise-cut emerald sits at the center like a sliver of green fire. Sharp, vivid, impossibly clear. The color shifts between deep forest green and brilliant emerald depending on how the light hits it. It's held in place by delicate tulip-shaped prongs that give the whole piece an almost vintage, fairy-tale feel. The band itself glitters with tiny white diamonds, tapering gently toward the center stone like a secret drawing your eye to the main event.
It doesn't shout for attention. It beckons. Regal, romantic, and just a little dangerous. Like a promise wrapped in velvet and thorns. I’m literally rendered speechless.
When he takes my left hand and slides it onto my finger, I suck in a breath. The fit is perfect, like he somehow knew my exact ring size. Which makes me irrationally angry. I don’t want him getting things right. I don’t want to feel chosen by someone who’s only pretending to care.
The weight of it feels substantial, real, important. It's exactly the sort of ring I pictured in my mind's eye when I was dreaming about fairy-tale weddings and happily ever after endings.
How could he possibly know that? How could he pick something so perfectly suited to tastes I've never shared with anyone?
In the midst of a very unspecial moment, there's a bit of magic tucked inside. And I frankly don't know how to handle it.
The romantic part of my brain, the part I've been trying to silence since Patrick, whispers that maybe this means something. Maybe he put thought into this choice. Maybe he sees me as more than just a convenient solution to his PR problems.
I touch the ring gently with my thumb, trying to keep the awe off my face. I'll never receive another ring like this, not in ten lifetimes. This is utterly unique, a piece of art as much as jewelry. Damn him for making this harder than it needs to be.
Hunter is a bad idea wrapped in a perfect moment. That's all this is. A moment. He’s not asking me to fall for him. He’s asking me to get out of trouble. Anyway, I refuse to be that stupid with a guy again, especially not this guy.
I’ve definitely learned my lesson where attractive, virile hockey players are concerned.
