Page 8 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
Hunter wasn’t wearing a wedding ring this morning.
Hunter’s wife is kissing another man in a very public grocery store on a very small island where residents drink gossip like water.
Which means Hunter’s wife can only be hisex-wife.
Huh.
My heart flutters.
NO. NO HEART. STOP IT RIGHT NOW. THIS CHANGES NOTHING!
DO YOU HEAR ME? NOTHING!
But my heart doesnothear me. The realization that Hunter and Cassidy split up already sets the ball rolling in what feels like a Rube Goldberg machine inside my body. One reaction leading to another to another until I’m left a quivering mess.
My thoughts go to the gentle way Hunter handled me earlier—even his fireman’s carry felt careful—and then to the concern in his dark eyes when he apologized as he gently removed my shoe and sock.
More flutters in the heart region. More thoughts racing, memories resurfacing, my pulse taking off like a sprinter at the sound of the gun.
I have GOT to get control of myself.
But how? My brain and my heart are working together now, flooding me with feelings, with memories, with the ache of a long-dormant desire waking up.
But I can resist. I have a lot of practice hiding behind very thick walls. So what if this island makes me feel like those walls are built on sand, their foundation already shifting? I can dig deeper. Fill the holes with concrete strong enough to withstand the strongest waves this island can throw at me. Upgrade my walls from pressure-treated wood to stone. Or iron.
“Hey, um, miss?”
My eyes pop open, darting around until they settle on the little girl standing beside my cart.Hunter’slittle girl.
“Hi,” I manage to say, my voice cracking. I clear my throat and try again. “Hello.”
She holds up a bottle of pain reliever. “This fell out of your cart.”
“Oh.” I hold out my hand. “Thank you.”
“Sunshine, let’s go!” Cassidy calls, thankfully not looking back. Just in case she does remember me, I will not be able to handle polite conversation with her right now.
The little girl smiles and waves. “Bye!”
Cassidy calls again, “Isabelle!”
A lump takes up immediate residence where my heart is supposed to be.
Isabelle.
Hunter named his daughterIsabelle.
I close my eyes one more time, the memory as clear and sharp as a scalpel.
“Okay. You’re going to live in a mansion,” I say, tilting the notebook so Hunter can see it. “You drive a Porsche, which obviously I bought for you because you’re a garbage truck driver, you’re married to me, and we have two kids.”
“A boy and a girl,” he says easily, like it’s perfectly normal for us to talk about our future like this. He reaches across the white wicker sofa on Gran’s back porch and tugs at a piece of my hair. “Isabelle is the oldest.”
I smile when he chooses my middle name.
“She’s stubborn like her mom. But she’s brilliant like her, too.”
I bite my lip. “And Ashton for the boy,” I say, choosing Hunter’s middle name, “after his dad. He’ll have your big, brown eyes. The same elusive smile.”
