Page 50 of Because I Liked A Boy
Relief floods me until he leans in, eyes catching mine.
“But don’t stand there and pretend you don’t feel this. Last night proved it.” His grin tugs, sharp and certain. “We’re way past pretending, Isabella.”
Before I can find words, he presses the latte into my hand, straightens, and walks away—leaving me in the doorway, heart hammering, vanilla and espresso burning against my palm.
I push into the shop like I can slam the door on everything Hunter just said. The bell jingles overhead, too bright, too cheerful for the state of my chest.
Mr. Whittaker looks up from behind the counter, glasses perched halfway down his nose. “Morning, Isabella. You’re early.”
“Give me something to do,” I blurt, clutching the latte like it’s a lifeline.
His brows lift. “Something?”
“Anything,” I insist, already dropping my bag under the counter. “Stocking, cleaning, sorting boxes, alphabetising… I don’t care. Just—something.”
He studies me for a long moment, lips twitching like he knows exactly what I’m doing but won’t call me out. “Boxes in the back. New shipment came in this morning. Think you can handle three crates of hard covers without collapsing?”
“Yes,” I say too quickly, already moving toward the storeroom.
The boxes are heavier than they look. My arms ache, my knees complain, but it doesn’t matter. That’s the point. If I’m busy enough, if I drown myself in the weight of paper and dust, maybe I won’t think about the feel of Hunter’s hands on my skin.
By the time I drag the second crate onto the floor, my cardigan is slipping off one shoulder, sweat dampening my hairline. Mr. Whittaker pokes his head around the door, amusement clear in his eyes.
“You asked for work, you got it,” he says mildly. “Don’t kill yourself in the process.”
“I’m fine,” I puff, already tearing into the next box. “Just… keeping busy.”
“Mm.” He hums like he doesn’t believe me. “Busy doesn’t always mean better.” Then he disappears again, leaving me with the weight of that truth.
I sink onto the floor, books piled around me like barricades. My fingers shake as I sort spines into neat rows, faster and faster, as if precision can keep me from replaying last night.
It doesn’t. Every time I slide another book into place, I hear his voice again.
We’re way past pretending, Isabella.
My phone buzzes against the floorboards. Ruby.
I stare at it like it’s a live grenade. Answering means questions. Questions mean Hunter. And I can’t—
The buzzing stops. Relief slips in. Then it starts again.
“Persistent menace,” I mutter, swiping to answer. “What?”
Her laugh is instant, smug. “Don’t ‘what’ me. I saw him this morning.”
My stomach flips. “Saw who?”
“Don’t play dumb. Tall, dark, smug as hell? Walked into my café like he owned it? Ordered your latte before you even showed?”
I close my eyes. “Ruby—”
“Oh my God, Isabella.” She drags my name out like a song. “He was waiting for you. With coffee. And then you left together. Tell me you finally kissed him.”
I drop my head into my hands. “Ruby.”
“Yep. That’s a yes. You sound guilty as hell.”
Guilt pricks at me as I hang up mid-laugh. I toss my phone onto the nearest stack of hardbacks like it’s cursed. Maybe if I bury myself in enough shelving, enough alphabetising, I’ll sweat Hunter right out of my head.
