Page 96 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
“Just drinks. Probably start at Ivy’s place, then hit a few bars.”
“Want me to come? We should… uh… probably make an appearance together.”
The offer catches me off guard. Hunter voluntarily spending time with my friends is not exactly his favorite activity. “You don’t have to. You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But if you want company...”
There’s something in his voice, something that makes me think he doesn’t want to be alone tonight either. Like maybe he missed this too. Missed me.
“The girls would love that,” I say, which is true. Not telling him my actual feelings, which are ecstatic.
“Give me twenty minutes to shower and change?”
I nod, and he pushes himself off the couch with a groan. As he passes behind me, his hand briefly touches my shoulder, and I have to fight not to lean into the contact.
“Juliet?”
I turn to look at him. “Yeah?”
“I’m glad to be back.”
He disappears down the hallway before I can respond, leaving me staring after him and wondering what the hell that meant.
Twenty minutes later, he emerges from his room looking completely different. Gone is the travel-rumpled hockey player, replaced by Hunter in dark jeans and a black henley that fits him in ways that should be illegal. His hair is still damp from the shower. He smells like a combination of soap, pine scent, and something distinctly him that makes my brain go fuzzy.
“Ready?” he asks.
I am so not ready. For any of this.
We start at Ivy’s apartment, where the Coven is already two drinks in and gossiping about a scandal involving a local influencer and a married city councilman. Hunter endures their interrogation about the road trip with surprising grace, even laughing when Jessa asks if he brought me back anything.
“Shit,” he says, a smile on his lips. “I knew I forgot something.”
“You were supposed to bring her a souvenir?” Ivy asks, clearly delighted by this development. “How romantic.”
“No,” I blurt. “He wasn’t. We don’t do that.”
“Why not?” Wren demands. “Ryan always brings me something when he travels.”
“Because we’re not...” I catch myself before I sayactually together. “Because we’re not cheesy like that.”
Hunter gives me a look I can’t quite read. “I’ll remember next time.”
Somehow, the idea of there being a next time makes my chest tight. Three and a half more months. There should be plenty of opportunities, I guess.
We migrate to The Secret History around ten, claiming the back room like we own it. Most of the team is there, celebrating being home, and the energy is loose despite their recent losses. I end up in a corner with Silas and Jett, who are apparently determined to entertain me with increasingly ridiculous stories about their teammates.
“So there’s Hunter,” Jett is saying, gesturing wildly with his beer, “standing in the hotel lobby in nothing but a towel because Shane thought it would be funny to steal his room key and all his clothes while he was in the shower.”
“What did he do?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Walked right up to the front desk like nothing was wrong,” Silas chimes in. “He was basically naked when he asked for a new key in the politest voice I’ve ever heard out of him. The poor desk clerk didn’t know where to look.”
I laugh, picturing Hunter’s face in that situation. “He’s got more confidence than shame, I’ll give him that.”
“That’s Hunter in a nutshell,” Jett agrees. “Zero shame, maximum chaos.”
Across the room, I catch Hunter watching us, and there’s something possessive in his frown that makes my skin buzz. It says that he doesn’t love seeing me laugh with his teammates, even though they’re just being friendly.
