Page 8 of Because I Liked A Boy
“Hunter!”
The voice slices through the garage, sharp and bright.
Heels snap against concrete, and a blonde totters in like she owns the place. Skirt barely covering anything, hair curled within an inch of its life, lips glossy pink.
She spots me instantly, smirk curling at the edges of her mouth. Then hereyes slide to him, narrowing just slightly.
“Seriously? You didn’t call me back after last night.” Her gaze flicks down my suitcase, then back to him with a mock pout. “Guess I should’ve known you’d move on fast. You always do.”
Hunter’s smirk stays, but his jaw ticks once—the smallest crack in his armour. “Millie, now’s not really a good time.”
She ignores him, stepping closer, all perfume and sharp laughter. “Don’t tell me you promised this one a ride too? You never change, Hunter. Always collecting girls like trophies.”
The words hang heavy in the air. He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t say anything at all.
And that’s enough.
I let out a bitter laugh. “Of course.”
His brows lift. “Of course what?”
“That I was right.” My chin tilts up, sharp as glass. “You’re just another fuckboy.”
The word hits. His smirk falters—barely, but I catch it.
“Princess—” he starts.
“Don’t.” I grip the suitcase handle, the keys heavy in my fist. “I’m not interested in being another one of your late-night forgettables.”
Millie laughs, syrupy sweet and cruel.
I don’t look back. Not at her. Not at him.
But as I step into the Maplewood heat, the smell of motor oil and the echo of his low chuckle cling to me like smoke.
Hunter Hayes. Trouble wrapped in a smirk. Attractive in a way I wish I hadn’t noticed.
And God help me—something tells me this isn’t the last time I’ll see him.
A Place To Land
By the time I pull the car up in front of a little coffee shop with a hand-painted sign that reads The Maple Bean, the afternoon sun has dulled to a heavy gray. My new sedan rattles slightly when I cut the engine, but it’s mine, and for now that’s enough.
Inside, the warmth hits immediately—coffee and cinnamon layered thick in the air, sweet enough to soften the edge of the day. Wooden tables are scarred with rings from years of mugs, each one its own story. Chalkboard menus hang above the counter, scrawled in pastel chalk with curls of steam rising from the illustrated cups. A record player hums from the corner, crackling faint jazz under the low thrum of conversation.
The barista looks like she belongs in the middle of it all. Her ginger hair is piled into a messy bun, tendrils slipping free as she works the machine with practised ease. A striped apron wraps her waist, gold hoops glinting when she turns to greet me with a grin that’s too bright for the gray day outside.
“Vanilla latte, please,” I say, brushing damp hair back from my face. “And—do you have Wi-Fi? My signal’s useless.”
“Of course.” She nods toward a framed scrap of paper pinned by the register. “Password’s on the board. Just don’t blame me if it cuts out mid-scroll. Maplewood Wi-Fi has a mind of its own.”
A laugh slips from me before I can stop it. “Noted.”
She sets a cup under the hiss of the steamer. “New here?”
I hesitate, then nod. “Just got in today.”
Something playful flickers in her grin. “Then you’ll need caffeine. And friends.” She slides the cup across the counter, vanilla and espresso curling into the air between us. “I’m Ruby.”
