Page 54 of Because I Liked A Boy
The second the lock clicks, I throw the door open and launch myself at him.
“Isabella—” he starts, catching me. My arms wrap tight around his neck, face pressed into the warm crook of his shoulder. My whole body shakes.
“Hey.” His voice is low, rough. “Careful, I’m all gross. Straight from the garage—”
“I don’t care,” I choke.
His chest rises against mine, a heavy exhale. Then his arms band tighter, one hand sliding into my hair, the other anchoring at my back.
“Fuck, princess,” he murmurs into my temple. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I was scared,” I whisper. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“You did the right thing.” His grip tightens. “You called me.”
Hunter shifts me gently, catching my hand in his grease-streaked grip. “Come on, princess. Let’s get you inside before people start talking.”
He locks the door behind us, bolts sliding home. When he turns back, he’s smiling—softer, calmer. Steady in a way I didn’t know I needed.
“You’ve got more locks than my workshop,” he mutters, testing each oneagain.
My chest is still tight. Instinctively, I clutch his hand harder.
Hunter chuckles quietly, kisses my knuckles, and whispers, “Easy, princess. You’re safe. Go sit down. Let me handle this.”
I sink onto the sofa while he moves through the flat, checking locks, cupboards, shadows. He rattles every handle, tests every bolt twice, muttering curses under his breath. Somehow, it’s comforting.
Watching him stalk through my space like that, broad shoulders tense, tattoos smudged with grease, it hits me—this should terrify me. But for the first time tonight, my pulse slows. Because as absurd as it is, I believe him. Nothing touches me while he’s breathing.
“You eaten today?”
“I… I don’t remember.”
“Figures.” He shoots me a look. “Toast? Tea? Anything. Just not a vanilla latte. You’ll never sleep.”
Despite myself, a shaky laugh slips free. Hunter grins. “There she is.”
By the time he’s finished pacing, he’s shaking his head at the barren kitchen. “Alright, princess. Tomorrow I’m dragging you food shopping. Actual groceries. Revolutionary, I know.”
I groan. “I hate vegetables.”
“You hate most things that are good for you.” His mouth curves. “Lucky for you, I’m persistent.”
I throw a cushion. He catches it easily, smirking.
Then, softer: “Takeaway tonight? Or do you want me on the menu?”
Heat flares. “You’re disgusting.”
“Disgusting?” He presses a hand to his chest. “Princess, that hurts.”
“McDonald’s,” I mutter. “When I lived in London, it always made me happy.”
“What’s your order?” he presses, pulling his phone out.
“Big Mac. Large fries. And nuggets. Always nuggets.”
“Twenty?” His grin is wicked.
