Page 15 of Because I Liked A Boy
I sink onto the nearest bench, my phone still clutched in my hand, those words still burning into the glass.
“Princess?”
I glance up. Hunter’s jogging toward me, shirt knotted around his waist, sweat glinting on the ink that winds down his arm. His chest is bare, tanned, distracting in a way that makes me want to roll my eyes at myself. He looks like trouble, and he knows it.
“You stalking me now?” I ask, sharper than I mean.
He smirks, dropping onto the bench beside me without hesitation. “If I was, I wouldn’t make it this obvious.”
“Comforting.”
His eyes sweep over me, lingering on the death grip I’ve got on my phone. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.” He leans back, stretching an arm casually across the bench. “You’re out here before eight. Without coffee. Which means you’re either sleepwalking… or something’s wrong.”
“Maybe I just wanted a walk.”
“In the park. At dawn. Without caffeine.” His tone is dry, but his eyes are sharp. “Sure, Isabella.”
The swings creak again. A jogger passes. My phone feels like lead in my hand.
Hunter finally pulls his shirt on, slow enough to be deliberate. He catches me watching and grins like he’s won.
“Enjoy the view?” he teases.
I arch a brow. “You wish.”
“Oh, I know.” His grin turns wicked, though there’s no malice in it. “Can’t blame you, though. I’d look too.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he murmurs, voice dipping as his arm settles behind me, “you’re still here.”
He studies me for a beat, gaze flicking to the phone still clutched in my hand. “Guess I’ll just have to guess why you look like you want to throw that thing in the pond.”
“You’re terrible at guessing.”
“Not when it comes to you, Princess.” His voice softens, almost coaxing. “But I’m thinking… whatever it is, it’d look better over pancakes.”
My stomach growls, betraying me.
Hunter’s grin turns smug. “Knew it. You can’t say no to me and breakfast.”
“I can.”
“You won’t.”
I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth betrays me. “Bossy.”
“Efficient,” he corrects, rising and offering me his hand.
I hesitate, then slide my fingers into his. His palm is warm, rough from work, and he doesn’t let go once I’m standing. Instead, he keeps hold as we fall into step together, his long stride forcing me to match his pace.
“Diner’s this way,” he says, like it’s already decided.
We walk on, the quiet hum of the waking town around us. His thumb brushes once over the back of my hand, light as a test. I don’t pull away.
