Page 19 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
“Doesn’t look fine. Let me help.”
“I’ve got it.”
As if to prove a point, I open the screen door and stop to hold it for Hunter. I don’t realize until it’s too late how difficult it is for two adult-sized humans to stand in a doorway at the same time without touching. Suddenly, Hunter is close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his big body, to smell the slight muskiness of his sun-warmed skin.
He moves slowly, pausing long enough for me to lift my eyes to his. There’s something sparking in their dark brown depths, but I can’t say what. Years ago, I would have been able to read him. But this adult version of Hunter makes me off-kilter and wobbly. I swallow, about to ask him what he’s doing, but then he moves inside and the tension between us snaps.
Except, maybe there isn’t tension between us. It might actually be allmytension—the whole fuse to the wet kindling analogy, which is all too fitting. For all I know, this attraction orwhatever it is I’m feeling is only building inside ofme.
I clear my throat and move toward the kitchen where fixing coffee will give me something to do with my hands. “I guess construction hours start early.”
“It’s cooler in the mornings.”
“Right.” I pour him a mug and slide it down the counter. “Milk? Sugar?”
I bite back a joking remark about neither of us drinking coffee at fifteen. No need to rehash things. He’s here for a job. I’m here to … oversee? Micromanage? Help? I’m not sure exactly how this part worked with Lo, or how it will work with us.
He nods toward the cinnamon vanilla creamer still sitting on the counter from when I made my own cup. “That works.”
I hand it over and do my best not to smile. This big burly lumberjack-looking man likes frou-frou coffee. Why do I find this adorable?
He tops off his mug with a long pour of creamer, almost making the mug overflow. When he takes a sip, Ido notnotice his Adam’s apple bobbing. I also don’t trace my eyes across the line of his jaw or try to imagine what he might look like without the beard.
Probably more like the Hunter I used to know. Not that I’m thinking about that. Or wondering if his beard is soft, or—
“Merritt?”
“What? Yes. No.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Yes and no?”
Oh my word.“Sorry. Um, I missed what you were asking?”
He lifts his coffee mug, and I swear it’s to hide a smile. “We said last night we were going to, uh, discuss some things today. If I remember, you wanted to talk.”
I freeze, my mug halfway to my lips. Did hehaveto bring that up? Couldn’t we both pretend the whole conversation never happened?
New York Merritt comes to my rescue, clearing the cobwebs out of my head. I set down my mug decisively. “Yes—the tile.”
“The tile,” he repeats, almost like he doesn’t believe me.
“I wanted to talk about the tile.” I give him a curt nod.
Eyeing me warily now, Hunter takes another sip of coffee, then says, “You asked me to come over close to midnight last night to discusstile?”
“Yes. But I’ll try to keep questions and phone calls relegated to business hours only from now on.”
I cross my arms, channeling the woman who feels more like a part I played in a high-school theater production, not who I am. Orwas. It’s been long enough, surely Hunter can’t tell the difference.
“I don’t want delays. I’d like to find a replacement tile that’s in stock.”
“Shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Good.”
“Okay.”
“Fine,” I say, strangely desperate to have the last word.
