Page 43 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
“You just left it sitting there, so I figured you were done,” she says, coy, but somehow still confident.
Honestly, if anyone else had taken my sundae, I might be annoyed, but not Merritt. I’d give her anything. I wonder if she knows. If that’s why she took it—she knows how gone for her I am.
She holds out the spoon, offering me a bite of the sundae, and tilts her head toward the picture on the bulletin board. “There are seventy-five more of these around town. Want to go look for them?”
I chuckle as I close my lips around the spoon. I should have known ONE photo would be way below Merritt’s skill level. “I’m guessing you aren’t going to tell me where they are?”
“Oh, absolutely not,” she says through her grin. “But I will definitely come along while you search.”
I pull the picture off the bulletin board, then loop a finger around Merritt’s belt loop, tugging her toward me. “You’re impossible, Merritt Markham.”
“Or I’m a genius,” she says easily, smiling up at me. “Because now we have an excuse to spend the rest of the day together.”
We ended up finding most of what Merritt put up that first afternoon, but for weeks after, I occasionally came across one on a shop window or stuck to the inside of a bathroom stall at the movie theater.
The way we would randomly come across a picture, sometimes in places Merritt didn’t even remember putting one up, was the funniest and the funnest part of our summer.
Until it wasn’t anymore. I found the last one two weeks after she left Oakley for the last time, and that one hit me like a sucker punch to the gut.
I clear my throat and push the thought away, choosing to focus on the brighter parts of our history. Those are the memories I need to channel if I want to make progress now.
“You’ve already got an idea,” Dante says. “I can tell.”
I have a million ideas. And a million hopes and wishes centering around Merritt. Now I just have to decide if I’m brave—or stupid—enough to try and make them happen. One thing is for sure—I’m not going to start by being thoughtful. At least, not in the way Dante meant. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’d advise me against my next plan of action, but I’m going to go with my gut.
If the goal is light and fun, then my gut says it’s time to mess with Merritt. Again.
TEN
Merritt
I walkacross the lawn to the beach house dressed in my oldest, most threadbare leggings and a shirt worn to epic levels of softness. When Hunter stopped by this morning with coffee for Sadie and me, he said I should come over later dressed to work. This is the best I can do. I hope it’s suitable because it’s theonlything I can do. Dress to work in a boardroom? I’ve got a million different options. Dress to remodel a house? Not so much.
After I dropped Sadie off at the airport, I contemplated driving to the nearest Target in Savannah to buy something to work in, but that felt ridiculous. And would probably be obvious to Hunter. Who buys new clothes only to do work that might ruin them?
Also, how many people know just how I like my coffee? Because Hunter does—unfussy, with no sugar and just a splash of cream. For Sadie, he brought a million sugars and creamers, just in case. I didn’t miss the look she gave me when he handed them over.
I also didn’t miss the way Hunter’s eyes stayed trained on me. Or the smile playing on Hunter’s lips when he told me he had some work for me to do at the beach house this afternoon.
Unfortunately, Sadie didn’t miss any of this either, and she spent the entire drive to the airport singing about Hunter and Merritt sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
Not that I would necessarily be opposed to the activity. But after the way Hunter fled the bar last week, I don’t know what to expect. All the confidence and moxie (and possibly alcohol?) that pushed me toalmosttelling him about Simon or about staying has faded. Especially now that the whole Simon thing came out the way it did.
Was he mad that I lied to—or misled—him about Simon? Does he care? Was he glad? Will he want to talk about it?
I push through the back door and into the kitchen where Hunter is leaning over the counter, installing the backsplash. The tiles look even better than I thought they would, and a surge of pride flits through me. I chose them! And they look good! It’s a very small victory, but considering how few of those I’ve had lately, I’m happy to take the win.
“Reporting for duty, boss,” I say, and Hunter looks over his shoulder, his lips lifting into a grin.
“Pretty sure you’re the one in charge around here.”
“True. Does that mean I should fire you for insubordination? Because it sounded like you were bossing me around this morning when you said you had work for me to do.”
“Not bossing. Just asking. And you’re here, so you must be willing.”
Willing for more than just work. But in Gran’s half-finished kitchen with the light of day streaming through the windows, my bravery is whittled down to a tiny nub.
“I’m only willing because Sadie left this morning, and I’mbored.” This is not entirely untrue. I AM bored. I’m also very excited about the prospect of spending time around Hunter.
