Page 17 of Because I Liked A Boy
“And yet you’re still sitting here,” he says, smirk curving softer now. Not just cocky—almost hopeful.
The waitress returns balancing plates, sliding a stack of pancakes in front of each of us. Syrup glistens under the lights, butter melting slow in the middle. She refills Hunter’s coffee without asking, then glances at me with a smallsmile. “Anything else?”
“I’m good, thank you,” I say quickly.
When she leaves, Hunter cuts straight into his pancakes, like this is just another Monday morning. “Your turn, Princess. Question.”
I fold my arms, leaning back. “What’s the last book you actually read?”
He smirks, chewing. “That’s easy. The repair manual for a ’67 Camaro.”
I narrow my eyes. “That doesn’t count.”
“Sure it does.” He grins wider, syrup shining on his fork. “Had words, had chapters, even had pictures.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Your problem, Isabella, is that you keep underestimating me. I read plenty.”
“Oh really?”
“Really.” His eyes catch mine. “I just prefer people. They’re harder to figure out. More interesting than paper and ink.”
The words land heavier than they should. I focus on my pancakes. “Then you’ll be disappointed here. I’m not interested in being figured out.”
Hunter tilts his head, studying me like I’ve just challenged him. Then his grin spreads again, softer this time. “Good thing I like a challenge.”
He points his fork at me. “What’s the first book that ever mattered to you?”
“Withering Heights. Found it in a secondhand shop when I was fifteen. The spine was cracked, pages falling out, but I read it cover to cover in a weekend.It was the first time I felt like someone had written a world I could crawl into and forget everything else.”
Hunter doesn’t tease. Doesn’t smirk. Just nods. “Makes sense. You strike me as someone who knows how to live inside her head.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s… comfortable.
Ruby once said Hunter was like fire—loud, bright, impossible to ignore. But sitting here, watching him shove another forkful of pancakes into his mouth, syrup smeared at the corner of his grin, he feels almost… human. Not trouble. Not the town’s playboy. Just a boy who keeps showing up, even when I tell myself I don’t want him to.
He catches me looking and raises a brow. “What?”
“You’ve got syrup on your face.”
He wipes it with the back of his hand, leaving a worse smear, and grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
And I laugh. Really laugh.
Hunter freezes, fork halfway to his mouth, like he’s memorising the sound. Then his grin softens, warmer than I’ve ever seen it. “See? Friends. We’re getting there.”
When the plates are cleared and the coffee is gone, Hunter pushes up from the booth, stretching like he’s been here all morning. He holds the door open, smirk tugging at his mouth but his eyes steadier now. “Come on, Princess. I’ll walk you back.”
“I don’t need—”
“Friends walk each other home,” he interrupts, easy as anything. “Where to?”
I sigh. “Maple Street. Number fourteen.”
“Perfect. That’s on my way.”
“It is not.”
