Page 82 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“I’m not!”
“You are. It’s okay to let down your guard a little. I promise I won’t tell.”
“Hm.” I toe off my heels, dropping them to the floor. “Happy?”
Hunter shrugs. “It’s a start.”
I study him for a moment, uncertain how to behave. A manual about living with your fake fiancé would go a long way right now.
“Thanks for showing up earlier,” I say, my voice soft. “And for not getting into a brawl with Patrick.”
“Your ex is a piece of shit,” Hunter says bluntly.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I don’t get how you ever found him attractive.”
I snort. “Have you seen him? He’s objectively handsome.”
“He’s got nothing on me.”
The cockiness in his voice makes me smile. “You’re right. You’re definitely hotter.”
Something shifts in his expression. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I take a sip of my perfect cappuccino. “Plus, you know how to order me coffee. Patrick never remembered what I liked in five years.”
“Oh yeah? Just your coffee order, huh? What else didn’t he remember?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with implication. Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “He never made me come. Not once in five years. He said I took too long, whatever that means. I guess I’m broken.”
Hunter immediately gets upset, leaning into my personal space. “What do you mean he never made you come?”
“Exactly what I said. I must be defective or something.”
“Bullshit.” His voice is a growl. “You’re not broken. He’s just a selfish asshole who didn’t deserve you.”
I shrug, aiming for casual even as my cheeks burn. “Or maybe it was me. Maybe I’m just… hard to figure out. Some kind of unsolvable puzzle. Not worth the effort.” I try to tack on a quick laugh, like it’s all a joke, but it lands flat in the air between us.
“Don’t,” he says fiercely. “Don’t you dare talk about yourself like that. You’re amazing. Patrick is lower than dirt.”
Then Hunter kisses me. His mouth moves against mine with a kind of patience I didn’t know he possessed. Each brush of his lips is deliberate, like he’s memorizing the shape of me. His thumb keeps stroking over my cheekbone, slow and steady, as if grounding me at the moment.
I can feel the faint scrape of stubble against my skin, the heat of his palm, the subtle shift of his breath as he tilts my head to deepen the kiss.
The taste of him is warm and familiar. Coffee, yes, but also something darker, something that clings to the edges of my senses and makes me lean closer without meaning to. His scent wraps around me. Firewood, vanilla, and a trace of his natural masculine smell. It’s dizzying in the best and worst ways.
Every nerve in my body feels awake, pulling me into him when I know I should pull back.
I’m half convinced he can feel my heartbeat against his chest. The steady weight of his hand on my face says he’s not in any rush to stop. His other hand settles at my hip, fingers flexing like he’s fighting the urge to drag me closer. I can sense the restraint in him, the way he’s holding himself back when every line of his body tells me he wants more.
When he finally murmurs, “Firecracker,” it isn’t teasing. It’s reverent, almost careful, like he’s speaking to a part of me no one else has bothered to see. I know if I let him keep going, he’ll burn through every wall I’ve built.
He should move away, make a joke, ruin the moment like he usually does. But for once, he doesn’t. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his gray-blue eyes intense.
“Promise me something,” he says.
“What?”
