Page 81 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
It turns out, not very far beneath his rugged exterior, there’s this whole other person who smiles, who is kind to puppies, wholistenswhen I ask him not to get in a fight with my ex.
Is this real? Hunter Huxley just controlled his temper for my sake?
What does that mean for how I feel about him? Is this the beginning of a crush I feel building in my chest? I’m unsteady, like the ground beneath my feet has turned to sand, which is now crumbling beneath my feet.
Hunter and I take a few more Instagram-worthy pictures with some adoptable puppies, then escape as quickly as possible. Patrick glares at us as we leave; there’s something undeniably fun about walking out of the building, my arm tucked in Hunter’s, my eyes glued to his handsome face.
I think even if Hunter wasn’t just here to protect me from my ex basically stalking me, I might like to look at him and squeeze his hard biceps.
“Coffee?” he asks as we walk to his truck.
“Please. I need caffeine and sugar and possibly alcohol.”
He stops at my favorite coffee place, the one I mentioned once in passing. “Quad cappuccino, extra shot, oat milk, no foam,” he tells the barista.
I stare at him. “You know my order?”
“I pay attention.”
“Since when?”
“Since always. You just never noticed.”
Never indeed.My face grows warm, but he just hands me my drink without saying another word.
We drive home in comfortable silence, and once we’re back in the condo, we collapse on the couch. I leave my heels on but make sure the bottoms aren’t touching the couch as I curl up against the oversized cushions.
Hunter heads into his room. I scroll through my notifications on my phone, stopping at the email I’ve been waiting for. It’s directly from Jimbo, the Seattle Havoc’s team owner, about how well I managed the potential PR crisis. I didn’t really do much. The others helped. But upper management is praising me anyway.
For a moment, I actually believe I might be good enough at this job.
I keep reading, sucking in a breath when I read the next part. Jimbo asks me to step up and fill some of the void left by Julien, who he apparently fired.
I fire off an email agreeing without a moment’s hesitation, my career ambitions overriding everything else.
My pulse pounds. On top of Hunter being a gentleman after rescuing me today, this is the deep red cherry perched on my sundae.
Hunter comes out of his room, looking nearly indecent as he throws himself on the couch beside me. The first thing I notice is the pair of dark gray Seattle Havoc-branded sweatpants that sit low on his hips. Next is his tight white tee, the sleeves pushed up to his shoulders to show off his powerfully-muscled arms. His tattoos jump out at me, a chaotic collection of tightly packed line drawings of tents, compass roses, and pine trees. I guess I never noticed his tattoos in particular before now.
But it’s the look on his face that gets me. Hair brushed back, high cheekbones, expressive full lips… and the naughtiest sparkle in his stormy gray eyes.
“Are you going to change?” he asks.
“Me?” I look down at my short white wrap dress, shrugging. “I don’t see why I would.”
Hunter kicks his long legs out, reclining, and puts his hands behind his head. Like I need any more reason to ogle him, jeez.
“You can’t be comfortable like that. At least take your shoes off.”
I look at my heels, checking again that the bottoms aren’t on the couch.
“My heels aren’t getting the couch dirty!”
He rolls his eyes. “Did I say that? Heaven forbid Juliette Monroe should get a couch dirty.”
“What’s your problem then?”
He jerks his chin at my heels. “You’re at home. Relax. Take off your shoes, let your hair down. You can even wear something comfortable. There are no cameras here. You don’t have to perform, Juliet.”
