Page 92 of Bleacher Report
And that's when it hits me.
I'm not prepared.
Not even a little bit.
Chapter Nineteen
Peyton
I stare at the rideshare pulling up to the curb, standing in the doorway of my townhouse with Hunter in front of me—backpack slung over one shoulder, small rolling bag at his side, and a twinge of disappointment pulling tight in my chest.
I know he has to go—some important meeting for a sponsorship deal—but that doesn’t make it any easier.
It’s only been four days since our so-called hall pass expired, and even though we’ve stuck to our rules since, it’s been...different.
Late-night card games. Ice cream sundaes. That ridiculous night he showed up with bright pink face masks and challenged me to a round of Would You Rather? that revealed more about him than I ever would’ve expected.
Small things.
Easy things.
Things that are starting to slip under my defenses, making this fake thing between us so much more comfortable than any of the real relationships I’ve had before.
"Don't let anyone steal my spot on that couch while I'm gone. Promise?" Hunter says, his eyes sparkling with mischief.
I roll my eyes, trying—and failing—not to smile.
"I make no such promises, Reed. That couch is fair game."
He laughs, stepping closer, tugging me gently toward him by the belt loop of my jeans.
Then he kisses me.
Soft and tender, nothing like the heated, desperate kisses we’ve shared.
This one is slow. Savoring.
The kind of kiss that makes my heart flutter and my bare toes curl against the cool metal door stoop.
He pulls back just a breath—his eyes locking on mine.
"Shit, sorry," he murmurs, the apology brushing my lips. "I know we said no kissing without warning. You just looked too good standing there."
Heat blooms in my cheeks, my whole body suddenly too aware of how close we are.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I don’t mind.”
Hunter gives me that smile—the slow, devastating one that curls at the edges like he knows exactly what he’s doing—and presses a kiss to my forehead before pulling away.
“I’ll call you later, Passenger Princess,” he says, tossing the nickname over his shoulder like he’s trying it on for size and already knows it fits.
I watch him walk toward the rideshare, my chest tightening a little more with each step he takes.
He pauses with one hand on the door. “Oh—and I left a present in the house for you. Good luck finding it.”
I blink. “You left me a present? Where?”
He grins. “Telling you would ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?”
