Page 71 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
Instead of taking the stairs, which would make sense because we’re sitting on them, Hunter laces his fingers through mine and leads us down the ramp, Vroom following right behind.
He’s taking the ramp for the sake of his dog.
Forget our history. Even if I’d only met Hunter ten minutes ago, my heart would already be in a melted puddle at my feet.
“How’s Isabelle?” I ask. The dogs race ahead, then turn and head down a path toward the marshy side. Hunter doesn’t call them back, so this must be okay, even for Vroom.
“Still sleeping. I gave her medicine a while ago, so her fever broke. She’ll probably be ready to eat when she wakes up, and the soup will be perfect. Thanks again for that.”
Hunter’s face changes when he talks about his daughter, and that does weird things to my heart. Weird, nervous things. But also … seeing him talk about Isabelle with such affection fillsmewith affection forhim. He swings open the creaky door to the metal shed. With a light tug on my hand, he stops me, and his face looks so vulnerable, it makes something pinch tightly in my chest.
“No judgment, okay?”
Did my words from long ago embed in his brain? Does he think I would judge him? Based on the question, he must. I’ll be honest—the realization hurts.
My relationships with my sisters are complicated. We love each other. We bicker. We have layers of history, shared memories that hit us all differently. What Hunter and I have is sort of like that in terms of all the layers. But it’s so much more complex because of the deep wounds.
Ones I inflicted on purpose. Others he still doesn’t even know he inflicted on me and never intended to cause.
Which you should tell him about, I remind myself.It’s not a huge thing—just tell him. You were here on his wedding day. You came back for him.
But … I don’t. Instead, I choose my words with care, choosing to stick with the present rather than bringing in the words I said in the past. “I promise not to judge.”
When he still looks unsure, I take a breath and lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. I mean it as a comfort, maybe even as a sort of promise, but to me, it’s more like an engine revving.
“I will love whatever is inside because you made it,” I whisper against his mouth, loving the softness of his lips and the light scratch of his whiskers.
Then, before I slam my lead foot against the gas pedal, I pull away and offer a reassuring smile. Hunter’s eyes are hooded, and when he licks his lips, I shiver.
Maybe I should rethink hitting the brakes …
But I don’t get to consider it too deeply before Hunter pulls me inside and flicks on a light switch. I clutch his hand, taking in the room with wide eyes.
The workshop is exactly what I would have imagined for him. The cement floor is swept clean. Every saw and tool I can’t name looks like it’s been recently wiped down and immaculately maintained, though none look new. It’s tidy and efficient.
But his work, on the other hand … I don’t have words.
I drop Hunter’s hand and step forward, drawn forward to a tabletop leaning vertically against one wall.
“This is … breathtaking.” I reach a hand out to the smooth wood surface, then pause with my fingertips inches away. “Can I touch it?”
“That one’s finished curing. Go ahead.”
I place both palms flat against the surface and walk, letting my hands glide over the polished wood. This is no ordinary table. It’s made of two large wood slabs with natural edges—rough, irregular, and darker than the wood top. In the very center between the two wood edges, there’s a burst of unexpected color. Swirls of deep blue threaded with turquoise and even a few lines of pink and purple. The finish is smooth and glossy.
“It’s called a river table,” Hunter says.
I understand why because that’s exactly what it looks like—a table with a river running right down the middle.
“It’s stunning.” I turn and meet his gaze. “Absolutelystunning.”
The walls are lined with more finished tops, large and small, and similar designs. All have the natural edges, and some of them have multiple places where the color swirls, giving the effect of something wholly natural, plucked right out of a forest.
I don’t miss the way he’s made this small building into a gallery of sorts. A private gallery, hidden out here on the loneliest part of the island.
I wonder if I’m the first one to see these.
“Are these commissions?” I ask, hoping my curiosity doesn’t sound like the extreme nosiness that it is. “Do you sell them in any of the stores on the island or in Savannah?”
