Page 16 of Because I Liked A Boy
The Maple Diner sits on the corner like it’s been there forever—red paint peeling from the trim, chrome dulled with age, neon sign buzzing faintly in the morning haze. The smell hits before the doordoes—coffee strong enough to wake the dead, bacon sizzling on the griddle, butter melting on toast. A jukebox hums an old country tune beneath the chatter.
Hunter pushes the door open for me. The little bell above it jingles, and every head swivels like gossip’s already halfway written.
Small towns. Nothing travels faster than whispers—except the chance to start them.
I’ve been here before, always solo, head down, in and out. Never with Hunter. And definitely not with him looking like he does now—shirt clinging to his chest, hair damp from his run, smirk dialled to trouble.
Which is probably why Millie Carson’s eyes lock on me the second we step inside.
She’s perched in her usual booth by the window with three of her friends, all glossy hair and manicured nails wrapped around matching lattes. They look like they’ve stepped out of a catalogue and into the business of making everyone else feel underdressed.
Ruby’s told me plenty about Millie. I’ve already had the misfortune of meeting her once—sauntering into Hunter’s garage like she owned the place. The way she’d looked at me then, syrupy smile sharpened into a knife, told me everything I needed to know.
Now her gaze flicks from him to me, sugar-laced poison dripping from her smile. “Morning, Hunter. Didn’t realise you were… entertaining company.”
Hunter doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s because my company’s worth keeping quiet about, Millie.” He doesn’t even glance her way. His hand presses lightly against the small of my back, steering me toward a booth like she’s nothing more than background noise.
The silence that follows us tastes like victory.
We slide into the booth, vinyl creaking beneath me. Hunter sprawls back like he owns the place, smirk cocked, but there’s something behind it—curiosity, maybe, or persistence in a different shape.
“So,” he says, stretching one arm along the backrest, “we’re playing a game.”
I arch a brow. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for games?”
“You’re always in the mood. You just don’t know it.” His grin widens. “Twenty questions. You answer, I answer. No lies.”
I stir my water with the straw. “And why, exactly, would I do that?”
“Because,” he leans forward, elbows braced on the table, “you don’t know me. Not really. And I don’t know you. If we’re going to be friends, that’s got to change.”
The word lands heavier than I expect. Friends. He says it casually, but not like a throwaway line. Like he means it.
“Friends,” I echo, sceptical.
“Relax, Princess.” His smirk returns, easier now. “Even playboys need someone to keep them in check.”
The waitress swings by with a notepad. Before I can speak, Hunter cuts in smoothly. “Pancakes and black coffee for me. Vanilla latte and pancakes for her.”
My glare could cut steel. “Ordering for me already?”
“Just efficient,” he says, all innocence. Then, softer, “Besides, friends know each other’s orders.”
The waitress hides a smile and walks away.
“Fine,” I mutter. “You start. But make it a real question.”
Hunter thinks for a beat, then asks, “If you could get on a plane tomorrow, anywhere in the world, where would you go?”
I blink. I was expecting smug, or something I could roll my eyes at. Not this. My throat tightens. “Anywhere far,” I say finally.
His gaze lingers, steady, like he sees through the answer. But all he does is nod. “Fair enough. Your turn.”
I tap my nails against the table. “What’s the one thing you actually like about Maplewood?”
His grin curves, slower this time. “The people. Some of them are worth sticking around for.”
The air shifts. I clear my throat, forcing my eyes down to the table. “You’re impossible.”
