Page 30 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
His jaw tightens, and his glare intensifies. I lean in, brushing his arm, whispering, “You’re staring so hard I might start charging admission.”
He mutters something under his breath that I don’t catch, but the flush creeping up his neck is reward enough. I hear camera shutters clicking; a few people who recognize Hunter have pulled out their cell phones to snap photos.
I’ve changed my mind. This dinner was actually a fabulous idea.
We sit at the fanciest sushi place in the city, all black marble and ambient lighting. Perfect for photos. I push his buttons throughout dinner, making him pose in increasingly intimate ways. Touching his hand, leaning into his shoulder, angling my ring so it catches the light just right.
Hunter growls warnings in my ear about behaving myself, which makes my stomach flip in ways I absolutely don’t want to examine. I take selfies of the two of us. It’s fun to make Hunter so deeply uncomfortable just by pretending to flirt with him.
At one point, I look at a picture I took and my breath catches. Wow. The way he’s looking at me in the shot... if you didn’t know us, you would think there was something real burning in that stare. His eyes are entrancing, intense in a way that makes my pulse quicken.
I order the most expensive sake on the menu and a dozen oysters. Hunter refuses to try even one, so I eat them all myself, slurping their juices and making a show of it. He seems riveted by my mouth, which reminds me I need to reapply my lipstick.
When some fans come over asking for autographs, he starts to say no, but I step in.
“Of course he’ll sign,” I say sweetly, nudging Hunter. “He loves meeting fans.”
I take pictures with them, chat about the team, and act genuinely friendly. Hunter watches me work his fans with something that might be appreciation. At least he doesn’t have to talk to them, I guess. Honestly, it’s better for the fans that I’m here.
We head home afterward, settling into a silence that isn’t as tense as usual. Thank god for that. I’m exhausted from performing all night, from being on every second we were in public. Still, it was successful. A good outing.
As we enter the Sinclair building, I’m about to tell him so when he gives me a long look.
“You sure you’re not enjoying this a little too much? The lights, the looks, the attention. Kind of fits.”
What? My jaw drops and my hands clench at my sides. The implication that I’m some kind of attention-seeking social climber makes me feel like a burned-out husk. I’m over here having a positive thought about Hunter for maybe the first time… and he has to douse me with cold water.
“You don’t know what it costs me every time my name shows up next to my picture. I’ve spent years fighting to be taken seriously.”
He goes still, his expression unreadable. I press the button for the elevator.
“I already had to survive Patrick,” I add, keeping my tone light. “If I lose my credibility over this, over you, it’s not just embarrassing. It’s career-ending. You probably wouldn’t get that though. I’d expect that kind of sexist thinking usually shows you in a more favorable light.”
I step into the elevator when the doors open, furious.
Even Hunter doesn’t see the real me. He sees what everyone else sees. Just a pretty face looking for an easy ride.
Shit. Now that I think about it, every public move we make could reinforce the wrong narrative about who I am and what I’m capable of.
“Ah, fuck.” Hunter exhales slowly, but he doesn’t look away. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No? Tell me. How did you mean it?”
His brow draws tight, and he looks at me as though working something through. “I was just trying to press your buttons, Ace.”
I lose patience, growling. “Don’t fucking call me that. Seriously, Huxley. You’re on my last nerve tonight.”
Lucky for both of us, the elevator dings and the doors open. I stride out first, my heels clicking with every furious step down the hallway.
I don’t say another word as we walk to our condo. I keep my shoulders square, my chin lifted, my expression locked in place. Every step feels like a battle not to let him see my hurt. That his casual dismissal of my struggles actually hurt.
Once the door shuts behind us, I go straight to my bedroom. I don’t slam the door. Don’t yell. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me lose control.
I wait.
Wait until I’m out of his sight, out of his reach.
Then I crumple onto the edge of my bed and bury my face in my hands.
