Page 54 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Hunter leans against the counter and looks me up and down. His lips purse, considering. “All right. Juliet then. Or maybe Firecracker. I think it fits better, anyway.”
My heart skips. Does he see me this way? Something about how he says my name so softly, like he actually means it, unravels something in my chest. I blink fast, trying not to let him see it.
He turns back to the counter and starts measuring protein powder like he did not just hit a nerve I have spent years trying to bury.
He turns away, changing into gray sweatpants right there in the kitchen, completely nonchalant about being half-naked in front of me. I whirl around and head back into the living room, my face flaming bright red. Then he stretches out on the couch with a protein shake like we didn’t just have a fight.
I perch at the other end of the couch, still vibrating with leftover adrenaline. He absent-mindedly reaches down to pass me the TV remote, his knuckles brushing mine, like touching me is the most normal thing in the world.
I adjust the hem of my skirt for the third time and catch Hunter watching me from his end of the couch.
I straighten, cross my arms defensively. “You’re staring at my chest again.”
Hunter doesn’t even blink. “No, I’m not.”
My eyes narrow. “You always do it. Every time I wear something remotely fitted.”
He smirks, and I know I’m about to regret asking. “If I were staring, it wasn’t at your chest.”
I blink. Yeah,right. “Oh, really?”
“Yeah.” He takes a sip of his protein shake, gaze lazy and heavy. “It was your legs.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
“And maybe your lips,” he adds casually. “Not gonna lie, the tits are great. But they weren’t what I was looking at.”
Color explodes across my face. I huff, look away, then back, like I can’t decide whether to slap him or run away.
Hunter grins, slowly and dangerously. “You blush easily.”
“I do not,” I snap.
“You do,” he says, voice lower now. “And it looks good on you.”
I glare at him, but I can feel my ears turning pink. The bastard notices everything.
I can’t stop replaying last night’s kiss. His mouth was hot against mine, the way my body just melted into his like it had been waiting for permission. Shame and craving coil together in my stomach. Suddenly my imagination is supplying images I absolutely don’t need. His mouth on my breasts, on me, him pushing deep while whispering my name.
“You’re such aplayer.” I curse my traitorous brain and blurt out, “You’d better keep your hands off other women while we’re fake engaged. I don’t want to be embarrassed.”
His head snaps toward me. “Never crossed my mind. I’m a one-woman guy, even if it’s pretend.”
The intensity in his eyes steals my breath. His lips twitch.
“I got you something,” he says.
My heart slams against my chest as I feign a deep lack of concern. “Oh?”
Hunter disappears into his room and comes back with something I wasn’t expecting. A jersey. His jersey, but in a smaller size that would actually fit me.
“You should wear this to games from now on,” he says, holding it out. “You know, to keep up the facade. If you were really mine, you’d wear it.”
The possessive way he saysminemakes my heart skip, even though I know he doesn’t mean it. Not really.
I take the jersey, feeling the soft fabric between my fingers. Number 47. Huxley. It smells like him, that cedar and danger scent that’s been driving me crazy.
“Fine,” I say. “For the cameras.”
