Page 54 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
“Island vultures?”
“Bunch of single or divorced ladies. Desperate. Hungry. Not in a good way. Hunter is one of the good ones. He’s the white whale of Oakley Island.”
I choke out a laugh, completely unsure how to respond. My pink cheeks probably say it all. “The white whale, huh?”
“Moby Dickreferences feel more relevant on an island, you know? I guess maybe some people might consider Benedict King the true white whale. But he’s more of a unicorn. Island owner, charming, billions in the bank—unicorn. Oh!” Naomi laughs. “Ben could be the narwhal—a white whale with a unicorn horn. It’s perfect.”
I bet Sadie would love that description. I make a mental note to text her about it later. By the time she left, we were fine and she’d forgiven me for not telling her about everything. But I’d like to check in to be sure. If I’m turning over a new leaf though, communicating with my sisters more, I probably need to tell her about this maybe date with Hunter. And also check in with Eloise.
“You weren’t, um, interested in Hunter, were you?” I ask Naomi.
“Oh, I never would have turned down a date with him. But no—we’ve been around each other enough for me to know there is zero interest. And it’s not like I wasintohim, specifically. He’s just a good guy. Speaking of …” Naomi glances at her phone. “I need to boogie. I like to be late for first dates. It’s a good test to see how guys react. But I’ll be super late if I don’t go now. Anyway—good to meet you! Bye!”
And then Naomi is gone, leaving me staring at my reflection. This outfit should look like it’s straddling worlds—mostly my old clothes just styled a different way. But I see nothing of New York Merritt in the mirror. I just see … me.
* * *
I domy best not to overthink the date. Mybest, as it happens, is not very good. My brain is like an overcooked noodle at this point. Rubbery and sticky and best thrown out.
I consider Naomi’s test of being late on purpose. But I can’t bring myself to do so—a compulsion to be on time is one thing about me that has not changed. I step outside with a good ten minutes to make the five-minute walk to the restaurant Hunter mentioned via text. It was me who suggested we should just meet at the restaurant. I’m not even sure why I insisted.
But it doesn’t matter, because Hunter is cresting the top of the porch steps as I open the door. When I swallow, my throat seems to get stuck. The man couldn’t look bad if he tried. But dressed in dark jeans and a faded blue button-down open over a tight white t-shirt, he is perfection. His hair looks shower-damp, and his beard looks freshly trimmed. The scent of him, woodsy and spicy and strong, reaches me, and I try not to take a visibly deep inhale.
Just a subtle deep inhale.
“Hey.” Hunter’s smile is adorably shy. “Is this okay? I took a chance coming here rather than meeting you. I was too early and figured it was a nice night for a walk.”
Is it a nice night? I did NOT notice the night. But he’s right—it’s a little less humid but still warm enough I don’t worry about finding a jacket or sweater. I do worry about the end of the night. Because if Hunter walked me here, Hunter will walk me home. And if Hunter walks me home, what will happen when we get to the door? An awkward goodbye? A handshake? A hug?
A kiss?
My brain goes into meltdown mode immediately, and I realize I’m standing here NOT answering Hunter’s simple question.
“Sounds good,” I manage.
“Are you sure? You don’t sound sure.”
Laughing a little, I shake my head. “I am sure about very little these days. But walking with you sounds great.”
“Great,” he echoes.
His smile has my heart testing the limits of my cardiovascular system. All the systems, really. They’re all still in meltdown mode after the mere thought of a kiss at the end of the night.
“Oh, and I brought you this.” Hunter pulls something from his back pocket and then opens his palm.
I stare down at it, confused. “A penny?”
“Flowers felt like too much, and I didn’t want you to feel pressured. Do you remember this?”
Suddenly, I do.
“Are we watching a comedy, action-adventure, or drama tonight?” Hunter asks. I don’t miss the way his lip curls slightly when he says drama.
“Definitely a drama,” I tease, and he groans.
“Please just not another historical one. I can’t handle all the buggies and corsets.”
I laugh. “I was kidding. I’m more in the mood for …” I pause, and our eyes lock.
