Page 57 of Bleacher Report
I glance over at Abby, and she’s giving me that look again. The one that says,this man is perfect.
Except he’s not.
He wouldn’t even be here tonight if we weren’t pretending.
“And if your aunt is nice to you,” Hunter adds with a wink, “maybe she can tag along too.”
I roll my eyes. “Cute.”
But my heart thumps anyway.
The drive home is quiet.
Not awkward quiet—just that kind of full, satisfied quiet you get after a long day surrounded by family and too much food.
Outside, the streets are nearly empty, the outskirts of Seattle still asleep in its post-holiday haze. Inside the truck, the heat hums low, the dashboard lights casting a soft glow across Hunter’s profile.
He hasn’t turned on the radio this time. Maybe he’s too full of turkey and pie. Maybe he’s lost in thought like I am.
I stare out the window, the cool glass pressed against my temple, replaying the night in my head—Jesse’s smile, Mom’s laugh, the way Hunter fit so easily into all of it.
It’s dangerous, how good he is at this. How natural it felt having him there. How easy it was to forget it was all fake.
His hand moves, resting casually on the center console, fingers tapping against the leather.
I glance over.
He catches me looking and flashes that damn crooked grin like he knows exactly what I’ve been thinking.
My stomach does a little flip.
"Thanks for coming tonight," I say, breaking the silence.
Hunter keeps his eyes on the road but his voice softens. "I wouldn't have missed it."
That’s the problem.
He’s too convincing.
And I can’t afford to forget why he’s here.
By the time we get back to the townhouse, my limbs feel like lead, my stomach still too full from two helpings of pie, and my brain buzzing with everything I don’t want to think about—how easy it would be to want more of this.
Hunter carries the leftover container of pie into the kitchen while I shuffle down the hall, already tugging my hair tie loose.
When I come back out, he’s leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when he hears me and gives me a soft, tired smile.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah. Just tired.”
I cross to the bedroom and disappear into the bathroom to change, brushing my teeth and washing off my makeup like it’s any other night. Like I haven’t spent the whole day pretending he’s my boyfriend.
When I finally crawl into bed, the pillow wall is back, but it doesn’t feel like much of a barrier anymore.
Hunter flips the light off and slides under the covers, turning onto his side to face me.
“I’ll be gone tomorrow,” he says quietly, voice rough with exhaustion.
