Page 17 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
"You're the Monroe move?" the lead guy asks, checking his paperwork.
"That's me. Everything's labeled and inventoried. Handle the boxes marked 'fragile' like they contain nuclear material."
The movers take one look at me and don't question a single instruction. They just move. Exactly like I need them to.
Jessa is here helping, which means she's hovering around the edges making anxious commentary while I orchestrate this entire operation like a general commanding troops.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asks for the fifth time this morning. "I mean, it's not too late to back out. We could say you got food poisoning or something."
"Jessa." I give her a look. “Is this about me paying rent? Because I already promised I would pay to keep my bedroom open for when I return in a few months.”
She shakes her head. "It’s not about that. I just feel terrible about getting you into this mess."
"You feel terrible? I'm the one who has to live with him."
She winces. "Maybe it won't be that bad. Maybe he's different now."
“He’s fucking late.” I give her a prim look. "I’ll bet he’s exactly the same."
I tell myself this is strategic, nothing more. A carefully calculated PR move to salvage Hunter's reputation and prove my own worth to the team management. But the real reason my stomach keeps twisting into knots isn't the cameras or the inevitable media attention we'll get. It's him.
He just rubs me the wrong way. I can’t forget for one second that Hunter Huxley is the same man who once humiliated me at a college party in front of half the journalism department. The one who changed the trajectory of my career, of my entire life, by telling a journalist his inner thoughts about me.
Juliet Monroe? She’s not really my type. Probably not anyone’s.
Two days later, I found out I had been passed over for an internship position that I was all but guaranteed to get. And my face splashed across the “Interviews With Student Athletes” section, coupled with his hurtful statement, sealed my decision about him.
It’s not Hunter’s fault that Jared decided to print what would obviously in retrospect be off the record conversation. But Jared didn’t trick him into saying those awful things about me. He’s a fucking asshole.
Everything is perfectly in place by the time Hunter arrives. An hour late, of course. Because why would he respect the schedule he asked for when he can just show up whenever he feels like it?
He strolls in wearing aviator sunglasses, gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, and the smug indifference of a man who knows he can get away with murder. His dirty blond hair is still messy from sleep, and he's got that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that somehow works on him in ways that deeply annoy me. There's stubble along his jaw that suggests he couldn't even be bothered to shave for moving day.
Jerk.
"You're late," I say, crossing my arms and giving him my best disapproving stare.
He pulls off his sunglasses and gives me a slow once-over, his gaze traveling from my heels to my face with deliberate slowness. "Traffic."
"It's Sunday morning."
"Church traffic."
"You don't go to church."
"How would you know?"
I gesture at his entire appearance. "Lucky guess."
He smirks like he finds my entire existence amusing. "Do you sleep in slacks?"
I'm wearing perfectly appropriate but dressy pants and a crisp white blouse, thank you very much. Nothing about my outfit warrants that kind of commentary. But I refuse to rise to the bait. I have better things to do than get into a fashion argument with someone wearing sweatpants to his own fake engagement.
Then he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear, "Let me guess. You get dressed in your room. With the door locked. Even when you’re home alone and there’s no one else to see."
I turn sharply, heat flashing up my neck. "Excuse me?"
He shrugs like he didn't just say something completely inappropriate. "Nothing."
