Page 29 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I hold out my phone without a word, jaw tightening. Hunter reads Patrick’s quotes and goes completely silent, his jaw ticking in that way that usually means violence is imminent.
We’re alike in that way, I guess.
“That fucker. You want me to handle it?” he asks quietly.
I laugh, but there is no humor in the sound. “It’s nice of you to offer, but really, what’re you going to do? Houston is pretty far away, and the last thing I need is you starting a public feud with Patrick.”
I shake my head, imagining Hunter and Patrick seeing each other in person. When we were all in college at U of W, they played hockey on the same team. But that doesn’t mean they got along. Quite the opposite.
Now that I think about it, I’m not Hunter’s archenemy. I’m more of an annoyance than someone Hunter wishes ill. Patrick would definitely qualify for that status, though.
I shake my head, my lips twitching at the idea of someone putting that douchebag Patrick in his place. It’s not the worst idea. I sigh. “No. Unfortunately, I’m used to cleaning up after Patrick. I can handle this. I have to.”
Hunter doesn’t argue, but the heat in his eyes stays. He’s a walking PR disaster, and yet I realize I trust him more than I ever trusted my ex-boyfriend. That thought alone makes me want to scream.
After practice, Hunter and I head home together. Hunter crashes for a few hours, exhausted from practice. I watch some foreign detective shows and scroll Instagram endlessly, switching from news of my fake engagement to Patrick’s smarmy face next to quotes about how I “always look for someone to take care of me”.
After an hour, I have to put my phone away and not look at the internet anymore because otherwise, I’ll start crying.
When Hunter eventually wakes up, it’s time for dinner. Our dinner. The one I’ve already planned as our next public appearance.
I get dressed carefully, choosing a soft blue floral wrap dress, showing off my collarbones and curves. It’s sexier than my usual choices, designed to look effortless and romantic for the cameras.
But I regret it the second I step out of the guest bedroom at Hunter’s condo. It clings to all the places people already love to judge. Hunter straightens when he sees me, swallowing hard. But it’s not my chest he’s zeroed in on. It’s my bare legs. And then his gaze travels up to my mouth, glossy and carefully painted.
I catch the way his eyes drag down my body, then snap back to my lips like he’s trying not to think about them. It shocks me more than it should. Hunter Huxley, looking at me like he wants something he can’t have.
I make sure I wear just a whiff of my favorite perfume and do my eye makeup perfectly. When Hunter sees me, he goes stiff and swallows audibly.
I smile slowly. “Eyes up, Chainsaw. Or you’ll miss the best part.”
He clears his throat. “You look... um… dressed.”
“Wow,” I say, adjusting my clutch. “Remind me to embroider that onto a pillow.”
He scowls, watching me walk past. He is quiet as we ride to the restaurant. I think about the look on his face when I emerged. Surprised? Maybe slightly pleased? It was interesting.
When Hunter pulls up to the valet at the restaurant, I wait for him to come around to open my door. My heartbeat rises. I don’t know why exactly; I did the hard part last night when I posted our fake engagement for the world to see. Hunter doesn’t even look at me as he holds my door open, a fact that I don’t miss. But I paste on a smile and grab his arm.
We probably look ridiculous next to each other. He’s a towering beast and I’m… well, I stopped growing in seventh grade when everyone else was shooting up like a bunch of weeds. I’ve always been petite. We are quite a pair.
“Hunter! Hunter, over here!” I can hear camera shutters as Hunter puts his arm around me and pulls me toward the restaurant door. Just for the cameras, I lean into him and try to show some gratitude that he’s sheltering me from the dogged press. Just for the show.
We make it into the restaurant, where someone whisks us to our table. I’ve asked for the table in the center of the dining room. It’s definitely the spot to be seen. Paparazzi pictures from this restaurant fill the pages of every gossip column.
I picked well, if you ask me.
Clearing my throat, I tug at the hem of my dress, pulling down my neckline a quarter of an inch. I know what I’m doing; you don’t spend nearly all of your adult life trying to downplay your boobs without knowing just how to make them highly visible. He gets an eyeful of cleavage and I don’t miss the way his breathing changes.
Ugh, yes. I have breasts. Look your fill, I think. Hunter leans closer and whispers in my ear.
“You’re doing this on purpose.”
“Doing what?” I ask innocently.
He growls and his eyes drop to my chest. “That.”
“That’s not very specific,” I say, smoothing my dress. “You’ll have to be clearer.”
