Page 29 of Because I Liked A Boy
—and slam straight into him.
Hunter. Filling the space like he belongs here. The impact knocks me off balance, towel slipping.
“Fuck!” I hiss, scrambling to grab it. Too late. It hits the floor. I’m bare, dripping, mortified.
Hunter swears, jerking his gaze to the ceiling like it might save him. “Fuck, Princess. You trying to kill me?”
I yank the towel back around me, cheeks blazing. “Maybe don’t sneak into a girl’s bedroom!”
“I didn’t sneak,” he says, still staring skyward. “I knocked. No answer. Thought you’d passed out again.”
“So you just strolled in?”
His mouth twitches, fighting a grin. “Pretty sure you’re the one who strolled in on me.”
My cheeks burn hotter. “You didn’t have to look so horrified.”
He finally risks a glance, lips twitching. “Horrified? Princess, I nearly gave myself whiplash looking away.”
I clutch the towel tighter, mortified. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”
“Funny,” he drawls, grin cocky, “because here I am—rescuing damsels from their own terrible towel skills.”
My brain short-circuits. He’s impossible. Still, I can’t stop replaying the fact that he looked away. Like he actually respected me. What kind of fuckboy does that?
“You’re impossible.”
Finally he risks a glance, quick and cautious, before meeting my eyes with a smirk. “And yet you don’t seem that mad I’m here.”
“Only because you left me painkillers.”
“See?” He spreads his hands. “Useful friend material.”
“Some friend,” I mutter.
He chuckles low, heading for the door. “Relax, Princess. Didn’t see a thing.”
“You’re lying.”
“Maybe.” His grin curves. “But if we’re starting as friends, I should at least try being a gentleman.”
He leaves, tension breaks, and I’m left with a heartbeat that won’t calm down.
By the time I pull on denim shorts and a green tank, my head’s dulled to a manageable throb. But waking up to cold sheets still stings more than I’dever admit.
When I pad into the kitchen, Hunter’s already there — leaning against the counter like he owns it.
He smirks the second he sees me. “At least you’re dressed this time.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “You could’ve turned around.”
“Could’ve,” he says, holding up a paper cup. “Didn’t.” His grin sharpens at my glare. “Relax, Princess. You’ve got nothing I haven’t dreamed about already.”
I roll my eyes hard enough to make my headache worse.
“Coffee?” He slides the cup across. “Vanilla latte. And toast so you don’t die before noon.”
The smell hits me before the taste does — sweet vanilla and roasted espresso, curling warm in the air between us. He leans against the counter like he’s done this a hundred times, like he belongs in my kitchen in that easy, infuriating way.
