Page 41 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I exhale, feeling all the tension from this morning bubbling up. “My mom texted. I guess she found out about our engagement.”
Hunter’s jaw tightens immediately. “Yeah? Is that… bad?”
I shake my head, not wanting to repeat the exact words. “It’s just another thing for mom to pick on me about.”
Hunter’s eyes go dark in a way that would probably terrify most people. “You need me to straighten her out?”
Despite myself, I laugh. It’s a little choked sound that surprises both of us. “Wow. Tempting offer. But the point of this whole PR stunt is to make you look less like a rage monster, remember?”
He grunts. “Might be worth the hit to my reputation. Your mom can’t just bully you.”
“She’s just doing what moms do, I think.” I screw up my face.
Hunter takes a beat before answering. “I don’t have a very good frame of reference for how normal moms behave. But for what it’s worth, I think your mom making you feel bad about anything at all is bullshit. Moms are supposed to be… supportive and shit.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling now. Not because I’m over my mom’s latest text, but because, God help me, it feels good to have someone on my side. Even if it’s just fake. Even if it’s just for show.
“You’re a menace,” I tell him.
“Yeah, but I’m your menace. And your fiancé.”
The words hang in the air between us and I pretend they don’t make my chest feel tight.
What would it be like to have a guy who says that for real? Heavenly, I imagine.
A few hours later, we’re in my car driving to a luxury wedding venue in downtown Seattle. I insisted on driving because Hunter treats every red light like a personal insult. I need to arrive at this thing with my nerves intact.
There’s something infuriating about how casually he takes everything. I watch him in the passenger seat out of the corner of my eye. His long legs splay out, and he drapes one hand casually on the center console as if we are just two people on an actual date. He makes me feel completely off balance, like there’s a tide inside me pulling me toward him.
It’s too bad that he’s equal parts hot and terrible. Falling for someone like Hunter would be the most irresponsible thing I’ve ever done. I know exactly how that story ends. With my reputation in pieces and my heart as the punchline.
The venue is right on the water, all glass railings and driftwood accents and curated elegance. The place that charges five figures just to look at their brochure. It’s beautiful in that effortless way that actually takes enormous effort to achieve.
Julien, the team’s PR executive, meets us at the entrance with a clipboard and forced cheer that makes my teeth ache.
“Try to act smitten,” he whispers. Like we’re children who need basic direction.
Hunter mutters under his breath, “Can’t wait.” I catch his eye and repress a smile. He holds out his hand to me and I lace my fingers through his. His hand is too warm. It’s almost comical seeing how giant his hand is holding mine.
My thoughts wander off for a second, wondering at the difference in our sizes. Hunter is so much taller than I am. He’s a great bear of a person who slams through his opponents on the ice without ever slowing down.
I wonder if he’s big…everywhere. My ex was a 6’ hockey player and I know he had a surprisingly small dick. But something about Hunter’s growly don’t-come-near-me persona hints at him having a massive one.
I mean, he has to. Justlookat him.
Sensing my gaze, Hunter arches a brow. “Are you checking me out, Monroe?”
“What?” I avert my eyes, my cheeks growing hot. “God, in your dreams.”
“So you’ve said.” He tugs on my hand, pulling me against his body. “You’re supposed to be deeply in love with me, remember?”
“I remember.” I pinch my lips shut and look away. “Let’s just get this over with, huh?”
We’re ushered through a tour of the grand venue that feels more like a performance than actual venue shopping. I have to take the lead, pointing out floral arrangements and asking questions about catering for the content we’re supposed to be creating. Hunter grumbles every time I pull out my phone to take pictures, but he cooperates. Barely.
“Could you smile a little? At least try to look like you’re having fun?” I complain.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not having fun. I wouldn’t be having fun even if we were really engaged. This shit is boring.”
