Page 98 of Merritt and Her Childhood Crush
“Go find your shoes,” Mom urges, and Isabelle runs off to the house.
“Are you sure?” I ask Mom. “That would be amazing. I mean, if Merritt wants to—”
“Yes,” Merritt says quickly, and I don’t miss the way her eyes dip quickly to my bare chest and then away. “I want to.”
Mom grins, and Dad, still standing by the car but close enough to interject himself in the conversation, says, “It’s a date!”
“Matchmaking by my parents,” I say with a chuckle. “Not embarrassing at all.”
Merritt smirks. “Your parents always did love me.”
They’re not the only ones.
I move the ax out of the way and pick my shirt up off the ground where I left it earlier. Twisting the fabric in my hands, I’m suddenly struck with nerves. “I should probably shower.”
Merritt’s gaze trails over my chest and down to my abs before coming back up. “Yeah, you’re dirty,” she says, and her wordssounddirty.
Filthy, really.
I grin, tugging the shirt over my head. Over by the car, my dad coughs loudly into his hand, obviously able to hear everything.
Merritt shakes her head, her eyes wide. “I meant,literallydirty. Like from all the wood chopping and—”
“I know what you meant,” Dad calls, winking.
Mom materializes from the house. Her grin is so smug, that I know I’ll never live any of this down. But I don’t even care.
Not when Merritt bites her lip, looking more than happy at the idea of time alone.
“I’ll help Isabelle pack her school things,” Mom says, sauntering off toward the house.
“And I’ll just cool off in the car,” my dad says, waving before getting in.
It should be awkward, given the last few minutes, but Merritt and I are grinning at each other like fools.
“Don’t get any ideas,” I say.
Her brows lift. “Ideas? Why Hunter, whatever do you mean?”
“We need totalk,” I tell her, needing the reminder myself.
“Talking is good. I have some things to say too.”
That would usually sound ominous, but she looks happy. Relieved. Like this is going to be good talking, not bad talking. Then maybe we can have some time …nottalking?
“So, talk first. Then …” I trail off, very aware my parents are unabashedly still trying to listen to every word.
“Talk, then dinner. I’mstarving,” Merritt says, somehow conveying a literal and suggestive meaning in the same breath.
So am I.
As Isabelle emerges from the house, my phone rings. Cassidy’s ring. Merritt must recognize it too, because her face falls, her eyes suddenly unsure.
One more thing we need to talk about.
I’m not planning to answer—not now—but Isabelle also recognizes the ringtone and grabs my phone, answering before I can stop her. “Mommy! Grammy and Pops are taking me to dinner and—”
Isabelle stops mid-sentence, and I know what’s coming even before she shrieks loud enough to make Sunbeam howl.
