Page 3 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
It’s dead now. DOHA—dead on Hunter’s arrival.
Here lies Merritt’s heart. Stopped by the sight of the man she swore she’d never see again.
“Who wears flannel at the beach?” I demand, sounding more like my fraud self, the one who feared nothing, felt nothing. The one who wore the hard turtle shell with pride—a woman with all hard edges and zero vulnerability.
Ever.
Most especially not in front of the man who makes me feel more vulnerable than anyone in the whole world.
He grunts, then says, “Let’s get you back home.”
I’m about to scoff because this island isn’t home. My grandmother’s beach house, in the process of being renovated into a bed and breakfast, is not home. The carriage house where I’m staying after my little sister flew off to grad school is not home.
But then, after everything blew up at work and with my relationship, New York isn’t home either.
I guess I don’t reallyhavea home.
“I’m fine.”
The words are still in my mouth when Hunter’s strong arms sweep me up, bridal style.
Oh, no he DIDN’T.
The moment I begin fighting, he shifts, tossing me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. Having briefly dated a fireman, I know this isnevera hold they use in a burning building. They actually drag people because it keeps them low and out of the smoke.
Funny that given the flaming state of my life, a fireman’s carry feels completely appropriate here.
“Put me down!”
Hunter ignores me. I stop just short of pounding on his back because that would make me feel even more childish and out of control.
“I’m covered in sweat and sand,” I protest.
“The flannel will protect me.”
I grin, then bite down on my lip—hard—to stop the smile.
There he is—the quiet man with the surprisingly quick humor that makes rare and perfectly timed appearances. Most people never get to see it. Only the few whom Hunter allows to get close to him.
Maybe he’s a turtle, too.
I stay limply draped over his shoulder the rest of the way, over the wooden crosswalk and up the crushed oyster path to the carriage house.
I do my very best NOT to take deep inhales of Hunter’s spicy scent. I try—really, I do—NOT to watch his denim-clad butt as he walks. This man ismarried.Even if we didn’t have a complicated history, he would still be entirely off-limits.
But it’sright there.Unless I close my eyes, there is nowhere else to look. This feels like the perfect excuse for a free pass. Observation only, of course, but he IS the one who threw me over his shoulder with my head facing his butt in the first place. It’s like he’s MAKING me look. Andohit is a phenomenal butt.
As though he can hear my thoughts, or maybe hear me not-so-subtly breathing him in, Hunter grunts and says, “Take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
“Sure. Want to hand me my phone? It’s in my hip pocket,” I shoot back.
I swear, his whole body stiffens at my words, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. He was speaking generally because I was staring, but I just asked him to stick his hand in my pocket.
As much as I hate to do it, I force an image of Hunter and his wife Cassidy into my head. I have to keep them—the two of them—front and center in my brain.
My body jostles as Hunter climbs the stairs, and I repeat like a mantra in my head:married, married, married, married.
“Uh, what’s happening here?”
