Page 42 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“You’re the surliest guy in every room,” I tell him as we pause by a wall of windows overlooking Elliott Bay. “It’s exhausting. You know you can just not pick a fight every five minutes, right?”
“I didn’t pick a fight. I didn’t say fuck-all.”
“I know, but you’re over my shoulder in every picture, just glowering. Can’t you behave for one measly hour?”
He arches an eyebrow, and I can’t read his expression. “Where’s the fun in that?”
As we are walking out, I line up a shot of us with the Seattle skyline in the background, the Space Needle visible in the distance. “Smile like you’re not heading to your own funeral.”
He bares his teeth in what could generously be called a grin. “Is this close enough?”
I snap the photo. “Perfect. You look exactly like someone who’s planning to murder me on our wedding day.”
“Murder your pussy, maybe.” He says it so casually, like it’s something he’s thought about. I inhale so sharply that I suck a teeny bit of saliva down my windpipe, then cough violently.
All I can think while I’m pounding my chest and trying to recover is that Hunter just talked about my… mypussy. I’m one part repulsed, one part shocked, and part deeply curious if I’m living with some kind of pervert.
If so, I should know. I’m supposed to be his fiancée, after all. While I’m wheezing, Hunter claps me on the back, looking pretty amused.
“You okay there, Ace?”
“I’m fine,” I rasp. I cough into my fist, eyeing him. “And don’t call me that.”
“Was it what I said about your–” he starts.
A photographer pops out from behind a row of manicured hedges like a paparazzi jack-in-the-box. Hunter stiffens and pushes me behind him, a growl bursting from deep in his chest. Then another paparazzo appears. And another. Camera lenses glinting in the afternoon sun.
“Hunter! Juliet! Over here!” one yells.
Another demands, “How long have you two been together?”
“Is the wedding next month?”
“Are you pregnant?”
That last question makes my blood boil. How dare he ask something so personal? Before I can even open my mouth to respond, Hunter turns around and pulls me away from the photographer. His arm slides around my waist, yanking me close against his side. His body shields mine as we’re pushed back toward the doors of the venue. Someone tries to step into our path; Hunter lets out a loud growl that makes the guy think twice.
It’s not just acting anymore. There’s something protective and fierce in the way he positions himself between me and the cameras.
I try to keep my head down, my hand flying up before my face, and focus on. But my stupid heel catches on a crack in the sidewalk. For a second, I wobble, unable to move without losing a Louboutin heel.
I flail. My heels are from college, a time in my life when my parents still paid for designer things. If anything happens to them, they are irreplaceable. I stumble, arms flinging wide as I try to catch my balance.
Hunter immediately catches me, one arm sliding under my thighs and the other around my back, lifting me clean off the ground in one smooth motion.
The flashbulbs go absolutely wild. Ohgod. I’m having aThe Bodyguardmoment right now in front of frenzied, frothing paparazzi. There will be photos of this momenteverywhere.
Someone yells, “That’s love, baby!”
My reaction is to hide my face, turning away from the photographers and burying my nose against Hunter’s shoulder. The cedarwood and tobacco scent of his cologne hits me like a ton of bricks.
No man should smell this good. Especially not someone so grumpy.
My face flushes hot with embarrassment as I breathe him in for a moment. Then I writhe, protesting. Carefully of course, because I’m wearing a very short skirt. “Huxley, put me down.”
He looks down at me, storm-gray eyes taking me in. “You tripped.”
I push against his chest.
