Page 1 of Dear Mr. Hunk: A Steamy Standalone Instalove

Chapter One

Rory

We sit in Yasmin’s car opposite the mansion, looking more like a fortress with its high walls and imposing iron gates. Peering through the autumn rain, I see that none of the lights are on, at least at the front of the house – the part I can see from this angle since a lot of it is blocked by his gigantic keep-out walls.

“What if he’s in?” I murmur, nerves swirling in my belly.

Yasmin giggles and digs playfully into my side. “He’s not in. Look at the place.”

“He could just be sleeping. Or in a different room.”

Yasmin smiles across at me. When I return her gaze, it’s easy to look past our nineteen years to the girl she was when we first met, a four year old with bright red hair and freckles across her face. She used to hate her vivid hair, but now she’s grown into it, letting it fall down to her shoulders while owning her freckles.

“Think of it as a reverse birthday gift,” she goes on, ignoring my comment.

It’s probably because she knows it’s true.

Bennet Bradshaw could be in that large house somewhere, lying down in his underwear, his muscled chest heaving and his lips tipped into his characteristic smirk even as he rests.

My heartbeat quickens at the thought of him, pounding like it’s trying to drag me back to the past, to my eighteenth birthday.

I try not to think about that just in case I lose control and let my mind dance off to ridiculous places, but it’s difficult to beat back that part of me as I remember how close we came.

“It’s not like you’re going to leave your name,” she says, softer now. “But if you really don’t want to leave the letter, I’ll understand.”

“Do you think I’ve been vague enough?” I ask.

Yasmin shrugs. “I’m not sure. I think so. You didn’t mention any specifics about the party or anything. Maybe this was a silly idea. I don’t want to pressure you into anything, Rory.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say quickly. “I agreed to this. It’s just now that we’re here I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

She giggles. “Lorelei Clark please open the window if you feel that urge.”

I shoot her a look. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to ruin your car.”

We grin and then turn wordlessly back to the house.

My whole body buzzes with excitement and doubt and a whole cacophony of emotions as I try to convince myself to step from the car and stride up to his mailbox, which sits just beside the gate.

It’s my nineteenth birthday, an exact year since I almost kissed Bennet Bradshaw, my dad’s hunky best friend.

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