Page 65 of Because I Liked A Boy
The steady weight scrambled me. What did it mean? Did it mean anything at all? Should I ask?
We weren’t kids. I was twenty-six. We’d kissed, touched, confessed, bared pieces of ourselves. Adults. So why the hell did one hand on my thigh feel bigger than all of it?
I stared out the window, but every flex of his fingers made my stomach flip.
“Hey,” he said casually, eyes on the road. “Go out with me tonight.”
My head snapped toward him. “What?”
“Nothing crazy. Just the bar. But this time, just us. No Ruby. No Theo.” His fingers flexed on my thigh. “What do you say, princess?”
My pulse jumped. “Fine,” I said, too fast. “It’s a date.”
His grin was smug and devastating. “Knew you couldn’t resist me.”
I rolled my eyes, cheeks hot.
He pulled up outside the mum’s, engine low. I reached for the handle, but he was already circling the car.
The air was cool as I swung my legs out. Hunter caught my wrist before I could straighten. His mouth found mine firm, hot, unhurried. A kiss that promised tonight wouldn’t be like last time.
When he finally pulled back, his grin was crooked, thumb brushing my chin like he couldn’t let me go. “See you tonight, princess.”
And then he was gone, sliding into the car, engine growling as he pulled away, leaving me on the side walk with my lips tingling and my heart racing like I’d just stepped into something I couldn’t undo.
The day crawled.
Every time the bell over the shop door chimed, my chest jolted like it might be him. It never was. Just customers drifting in and out, arms full of paperbacks, the smell of dust and ink clinging to everything.
I tried to focus, stacking returns and alphabetising shelves, but my brain replayed the morning on a loop. Pancakes. Whipped cream. His hand on my thigh in the car. That kiss outside the book store that wasn’t just a kiss. It was a promise. Tonight. Just us.
By noon, my nerves were frayed, my stomach twisted somewhere between dread and giddy anticipation.
“Isabella.”
I looked up. Mr. Whittaker stood at the counter, a white to-go cup in one hand, a brown paper bag in the other. His eyes softened behind his glasses as he set them down. “Someone left this for you.”
My pulse jumped.
Vanilla latte. Extra shot. My usual.
A napkin was tucked under the lid, messy ink bleeding into the paper.
For my princess. Don’t forget to eat.
Heat flushed my cheeks. The bag held a cookie, big enough to count as lunch if I stretched the definition.
Mr. Whittaker gave me one of those long, knowing looks. Quiet. Not unkind. Sharp enough to make me squirm. Then he shuffled back to the stockroom without another word.
My phone buzzed instantly. Ruby.
Ruby: Don’t think I don’t know who that cookie + latte was for.
Ruby: Extra shot, Belle. That’s YOUR drink.
Ruby: And don’t get me started on the smug look on his face when he ordered it.
I groaned, thumbs flying.
