Page 19 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Hunter doesn't say anything about the ring choice. Neither do I. I wonder if he picked the ring out or if someone with taste did. Probably some nameless, faceless young woman who works at the jeweler’s shop.
We just stand there for a beat, both of us staring at my hand like we're not sure what just happened.
“So?” Hunter arches a brow. “I’ve never proposed to anyone before, but I think you have to say something.”
I narrow my eyes. “You didn’t ask me anything. You just shoved the box into my hand.”
“I didn’t shove it.” He rolls his eyes. “Will this work for your engagement ring?”
I gaze at the ring again. It sparkles on my finger. I admit, “This will work, I guess.”
“All right.” Hunter nods, his expression relaxing a hair. “I went with the ring that I could imagine you wearing. I’m glad you don’t hate it.”
My eyebrows rise. So he did pick it out. Interesting.
“I don’t hate it,” I affirm. I check my watch. “But I think we should get going. We have a lot of stuff to do. Including getting my car.”
He flaps his hand. “Don’t worry about your car. Give me the keys and I’ll have it moved to the parking deck under the Sinclair.”
“Have it moved? What if–” I start.
He cuts me off. “Come on, Ace. You can’t give me shit about everything. Pick your battles.”
I hate to say it, but he’s kind of right. I don’t have time to run any additional errands today. Not if I plan to get things unpacked at my temporary residence. I want as little interruption to my schedule as possible, so that’s my ambitious plan.
“Fine. I’ll get the keys,” I say. Walking out into the living room, I realize that the movers have finished taking my boxes and now the apartment looks oddly empty.
We leave, stopping for an early afternoon coffee and a bagel with schmear. I get a quad-shot Americano with a hint of oatmilk and an everything bagel with a sun-dried tomato cream cheese. Hunter looks a little disgusted by my food choices, which warms me up inside.
Hunter can gofuckhimself.
We arrive at the Sinclair, parking in the lot below the building. We take the elevator to the tenth floor, which has a total of four apartments. Hunter’s is the one closest to the door on the right. Then he opens the door for me, pushing me inside when I dawdle to check out the finished concrete hallway.
“I’m going, I’m going,” I mutter under my breath. “God, you’re so bossy.”
“You like it.” Hunter smirks. “Now get inside.”
I head in and instantly, I’m struck by what I see. Clean lines, glass walls, and a view that punches you in the chest. It has a sweeping wraparound deck that looks out over the Belltown waterfront. The windows stretch from floor to ceiling, all sharp edges and reflected sky, with the kind of sunset glow that makes real estate agents salivate.
It’s obviously a luxury apartment, but it has that funny habit of trait completely without warmth. Three bedrooms, three bathrooms, everything expensive and impersonal. Designed by someone with taste, clearly not Hunter, and that person had insight into the man who lives there. The furniture is minimal and modern, all steel, stone, and leather. Not a throw pillow in sight. The kitchen’s pristine, barely used, with an espresso machine he doesn’t know how to work and a fridge that’s eighty percent protein shakes and bottled water, twenty percent prepared high-protein meals from a service.
There’s no art on the walls. No photos. Nothing personal except maybe a pair of scuffed skates tossed by the front door and a dented hockey bag parked by the mudroom bench.
“You live here?” I burst into a fit of laughter when I step into the living room and open up the door that leads onto the terrace. “It looks like a billionaire’s Airbnb, not a home.”
Hunter sends me a glare. “You’re sounding awfully judgy for someone whose old apartment doesn’t have a working elevator, but does have a green carpet the exact color of baby puke.”
“Hey!” My mouth falls open. “That place is economical. All those things were there before we even got there.”
“No shit.” He shrugs. “I’m just pointing out that you probably shouldn’t be feeling too picky. This place is incredibly expensive.”
“I never said otherwise.”
He glares at me. “Welcome home, future wife.”
My cheeks color. “Is my bedroom down this way?”
He nods, turning to look down the hallway. “Mine is the one at the end. Yours is the first room on the right. There’s one bedroom on the other side of the hall that’s my home gym.”
