Page 29 of Faking Ties

“That’s very kind of you,” Evren says, taking the cookies from Hunter.

I can’t tell if Evren is serious or not, and I think these cookies are going to be the death of me.

A wistful look crosses Evren’s face. “You’re reminding me of my home country.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised he’s not American. He has a little bit of an accent, but not obvious enough to make me question it.

Evren smiles kindly at me and nods. Oh wow, he’s hot when he doesn’t scowl. “In Türkiye we always bring presents or food when we visit someone’s house.”

“You’re Turkish?” Hunter blurts out. I glance at him and give a universal “act cool” look, but he just shrugs and gives me a boyish smile.

“I was born and raised there.”

“Do you miss it?” I ask.

“I do. It’s a beautiful country. But my businesses and home are in America.” He sighs, as if saddened by that fact. “I’ll be sure to put these out for everyone to taste. Please grab a drink and enjoy yourselves.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hunter says, placing his hand on my lower back and guiding me outside where a bar is set up. “Those must be some magical cookies,” he whispers to me. “I can’t believe you got Evren to open up.”

“Just doing my job. Team FD for the win.”

“Yeah, team FD.” Hunter gives me a strange look before handing me a beer. “Well, I can’t wait to try your cookies.”

He says it in a way that makes it clear he doesn’t mean my cookies butmy cookie. Oh okay, wow. I’d fan myself if it wouldn’t give away my heated state. He doesn’t break eye contact while he drinks from his bottle. Why is that so hot? Why is he so hot? It’s criminal he’s that good-looking while also being talented.

A group of young kids run by us with popsicles dripping down their wrists and faces painted in an array of butterflies and superheroes. A little boy and girl peel off from the group and make a beeline toward Hunter.

“Hunty,” the little girl says, making grabbing hands for him.

“Up, up, up,” the boy adds.

Hunter glances at me. “Be right back.” He passes me his beer before scooping them up, one in each arm, and runs around like he’s an airplane. Surprise flickers through me as I watch them. He's actually playing with the kids, his hands brushing away their sticky fingerprints without a flinch. Somehow, this clashes with the image of Hunter I've built in my head.

“It’s surprising, right?” a man says to my left. I glance at him. He must be one of the football players on the team just based on his size.

“What is?”

“That Hunter’s actually good with kids. Don’t worry, I was just as shocked as you are.” He laughs. “I’m Quincy, that buffoon’s best friend.”

“No, I’m his best friend,” another man says in a bright pink T-shirt and navy pants. “I’m Jake.”

“Hunter sounds mighty popular if you’re fighting over best friend rights,” I say, hoping that’s something Stella would say.

They laugh, but it wasn’t funny. They’re probably being polite. Shit, why is this all so hard?

“Should we tell her?” Quincy asks Jake.

“Have you met Hunter?” Jake asks. “Because he’s never going to win a popularity contest in the team.”

“And let me guess.” I look him up and down. “You would?”

“Well, I am the captain.” Jake flashes me a megawatt smile, as if that’ll cement his popularity.

I snort. “I’d give my vote to Quincy over you.”

Quincy grins and Jake gasps in mock outrage. “Why would you do that?”

“You’re too pretty to trust,” I say simply. It’s true. He’s got this all-American thing going on, but there’s no way he’s that nice of a guy. They never are, not in my experience.

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