Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
EVE
I peek out the curtains for the tenth time in two minutes. Drop the blue fabric like it burned me when I see the street is still empty. Glance at the clock, and then resume my anxious pacing.
Hunter isn’t supposed to be here for another five minutes. Anxiety is stretching each second to feel like hours. I’m wired from the three cups of coffee I had this morning to combat the mere four hours of sleep I managed, the stress of worrying about running into Ben on campus, and the nerves about this drive with Hunter.
I haven’t spoken to him since the awkward encounter outside La Bella Napoli’s bathrooms. Harlow arranged everything related to me joining her spring break plans—I’m guessing because she thought I’d try to back out otherwise.
A valid concern.
I turn into the kitchen at the end of my next lap, pouring a glass of water to keep my hands busy. I’ve drained half the contents before it occurs to me that gulping water right before a nine-hour road trip isn’t the wisest choice.
I dump the rest of the water into a succulent, then hustle down the hallway toward the bathroom.
Halfway there, I hear a knock on the front door.
Fuck . He’s early.
I spin back around, toward the front door, then complete the turn and jog into my room. I glance into the mirror above my dresser to assess my appearance—not great, but not awful either—apply some lip balm, and then sprint back to the entryway.
I’m already breathing heavily, my heart rate a wild staccato in my ears, when I open the door.
The sight of Hunter makes my vitals even more irregular.
He’s his usual gorgeous self, wearing a navy waffle-knit shirt that shows off the broadness of his shoulders and the impressive bulge of his biceps. The darker shade makes his eyes pop. And when he smiles… Shit. Even the lingering chill in the spring air isn’t affecting me. And I’m always cold, like a lizard. The climate is the one thing I miss about living in Arizona.
“Hey, Eve.”
“Hi, Hunter.” I sound like I just ran a marathon. Hopefully he’ll think I was training with Harlow earlier or something. Except…he knows Harlow left yesterday, so probably not. “Thank you for doing this. You know, uh, driving me. It’s really nice of you.”
“No problem at all,” he replies easily. “I’m glad you’re coming with us. Should be a fun week, but I wasn’t totally thrilled about the fifth-wheeling part. It can be…a lot.”
I nod. “Trust me, I know.”
Hunter gifts me with a full grin, and I almost have a heart attack. “Yeah, right. I’m sure you do.” He glances at the suitcase standing next to a pair of Harlow’s sneakers. “This your bag?”
“Yeah. I just need to grab my backpack from my room, and then I’m ready to go.”
“No rush. I’ll stick this in the car. Come out whenever you’re all set. Unless you need help carrying anything else?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks.”
He nods, then bends over to grab the handle of my suitcase. The fabric of his pants stretches tight across his ass, and my mouth immediately goes dry. An entire flock of butterflies takes flight in my stomach.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I mean, I do . I’ve never been suave around guys—let alone devastatingly attractive ones.
Also, I just got out of a long-term relationship that wasn’t exactly sizzling .
It’s been years since I kissed a guy other than Ben, let alone done anything else.
I’m wanting a distraction from the breakup.
And…it’s Hunter Morgan .
I know—even though I’m going to lie to myself for the next nine hours out of sheer self-preservation—that’s the main reason I’m a human inferno right now.
“Be right there,” I say, then hustle down the hallway.
A few seconds later, I hear the front door shut.
After grabbing my backpack, I pee, pull on my jacket, take five deep breaths, and then head outside. I double-check the front door is locked before heading for the green SUV parked along the curb.
“Have a nice break, Eve!” Mr. Goodman calls from his front yard. Our neighbor is outdoors mulching his front flowerbeds.
“Thank you,” I respond, waving before opening the passenger-side door.
The interior of Hunter’s car is very clean. I imagine the messy, sweaty jock stereotype exists for some reason, but Hunter appears to be the exception.
Underneath the lingering aroma of pleather, all my nose can detect is a subtle masculine scent. I inhale deeply a few times, trying to catch a stronger whiff. No luck, which is disappointing, although I also appreciate that he’s not one of those guys who smells like he bathed in cologne, since it’s not really warm enough to have the window open.
“All set?” he asks, shifting the car into drive.
I nod, buckling in. “All set.”
I glance in the rearview mirror as he pulls away from the curb. My home at Holt is out of sight in seconds, along with my plan for spending break solo.
This is a new chapter , I tell myself. College isn’t over yet.
I turn my head, but the ache in my awkwardly bent neck doesn’t improve at all. I reach back to rub the sore muscle, and bang my elbow on the car door. Every nerve ending in my right arm protests.
It doesn’t feel like we’re moving. I open my eyes, expecting to see cars on the road ahead, same as before I started dozing.
But there’s dirt and grass and guardrail, and past it—the Pacific.
I sit up straight, a burst of adrenaline bolting through my system. Glance at Hunter, who’s turning off the car and picking up his phone. I guess the lack of movement is what woke me up.
“Uh, what—what’s going on?” Remarkably, my voice sounds fairly normal. Like I wake up on the side of the highway regularly.
Hunter doesn’t reply right away. He’s scrolling on his phone screen, this sexy crease of concentration between his eyes.
Absurdly, I’m wondering what it would take to get another grin from him. We didn’t talk much before I fell asleep, and, ridiculously, I’m more focused on what I should say than why we’re motionless.
Hunter lowers his phone, reaches toward the dashboard, and turns the flashers on. “Your phone went off a few times. I’ll be right back.”
He opens his door and climbs out without offering any more of an explanation.
Maybe he has to pee? That would explain the unplanned stop and sudden urgency.
I yawn, then grab my phone from the cupholder and scroll through the notifications. A missed call from my mom, even though I talked to her last night. A few messages from Harlow, asking for progress updates on the drive. And two texts from Ben.
BEN: Since you won’t be around, I’m going home for break. Call me if you want to talk.
Ten minutes later, he added:
BEN: Please call me, Eve. Anytime.
I blow out a long breath, zip up my coat, and then climb out of the SUV. I’ll stay close to the car to give Hunter some privacy, but I might as well stretch my legs a little while we’re stopped.
Hunter didn’t stray far. He’s crouched by the rear tire, frowning at it. I walk closer, keeping my gaze fixed on the Holt Hockey bumper sticker stuck to the fender, instead of ogling his ass again, as I ask, “Is something wrong?”
“Yeah. It’s flat.”
“Shit,” I say.
We’re a few hours into a nine-hour drive. The navigational system already had our ETA projected as 11:45. A delay isn’t ideal, to say the least.
He glances up, the right corner of his mouth kicking up a half inch. Not another grin, but it still makes me feel unsteady. “Yeah. Shit.”
I shove my chilly fingers into the pockets of my coat, wiggling them in an attempt to encourage circulation. “Should I call a tow truck?”
“Nah, I can change it myself. There’s a spare.” Hunter’s already shoving up his sleeves and rounding the trunk, the thud of his Timberlands loud against the asphalt.
I move back a couple of steps so he can lift the tailgate. I like to think of myself as capable and competent, but I have nothing to contribute to this situation unless he wants a sketch to remember it by.
I’ve never gotten a flat tire, let alone changed one myself. So I stand awkwardly as Hunter sticks something behind the other rear tire. He shifts our bags to the side and pulls the floor of his trunk up, lifting a heavy-looking tire out of the hidden compartment like it weighs nothing, followed by a diamond-shaped jack.
He pulls a wrench out of the jack and crouches back down beside the tire.
His efficiency is impressive. Hunter strikes me as one of those people who always knows what to do in any given situation, but witnessing it firsthand is different.
I take a seat on the hard ground, pulling my legs into my chest, wrapping my arms around them, and resting my chin atop my knees.
Hunter glances at me, his hands still busy working at whatever’s holding the tire in place. “You don’t need to stay out here, Eve. Get back in the car.”
“I don’t mind,” I say, even though my butt is already numb. Sitting on cold asphalt is as uncomfortable as it sounds.
The sun never emerged in Somerville today. It doesn’t seem to have shined much in Middle of Nowhere, Oregon, either, because the ground feels the same temperature as a block of ice.
“It’s warmer in the car,” he tells me. “Safer too.”
Warmer, definitely.
Safer is debatable. This two-lane highway is quieter than the road that runs through the sleepy neighborhood Harlow and I live in. Not a single car has passed by since we stopped.
Plus, I’ve never sat on the side of a road with a handsome stranger before, or helped him change a tire. Not that Hunter is a complete stranger or that I’m “helping” him per se, but it feels good to do something that could be considered uncharacteristic. Maybe I’ll even add it to my fuck-it list, just so I can cross something else off.
“I’m good,” I respond. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“While sitting on the side of the highway? You really want me to answer that?”
“At least I wouldn’t die alone.”
Hunter huffs a laugh. I can’t tell if it’s a sound of genuine amusement or a pitying This chick is crazy kind of chuckle. “I guess.”
“Sorry. That was dark. I’m usually a little…cheerier. It’s just been a rough week.”
I trace one of the wildflowers I painted on the pants of my overalls—a yellow lily—avoiding looking his way after that admission.
“Yeah, I know.” Hunter’s voice is soft. A gentle tone you might use to soothe a scared animal.
He feels badly for me, obviously.
Which is exactly what you want from your crush. Not .
Admitting I have a crush on Hunter feels freeing. And a little uncomfortable, since he’s right here . But also healthy, a sign I’m moving forward, and a definite improvement from guilt. I never would have cheated on Ben, but the fact that Hunter made me feel giddy while I was in a supposedly happy relationship isn’t something I’m super proud of. Maybe if the same giddiness had happened around several guys, it would have mattered less.
But it didn’t—doesn’t—around several guys. Just Hunter.
“Have you changed a tire before?” I ask as a distraction from my thoughts.
“Not by myself,” he answers. “My dad got a flat once when we were on a fishing trip. I helped him change it. I remember the basics, and I double-checked an article after we stopped.”
That explains what he was doing on his phone.
“Don’t worry,” he adds. “It’ll be fine.”
“I’m not worried.”
Hunter glances over as he cranks the jack, hearing the sincerity in my voice.
Getting stranded in the middle of Oregon? Not ideal. But I’m not worried. Hunter makes me nervous, but he also makes me feel safe. There’s a reason that my unsure freshman self struck up a conversation with him, which was wildly out of character. My mom drilled don’t talk to strangers into me a little too strongly. Or maybe that’s just the excuse I’ve used to stay in my comfort zone.
“You had class this morning?” he asks.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yep. My professor only allows us one unexcused absence a semester, so…”
“What class was it?”
“Comparative Politics and International Relations,” Hunter replies.
“So, you’re a political science major?”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s cool.”
And unexpected. Most of the sports guys major in business.
I have this vague sense of who Hunter Morgan is. Bits and pieces I’ve collected over the past several years like some secret project.
He’s like one of my favorite paintings. For years, I’ve treated glimpses of Hunter as a chance to survey, to observe more of the details you miss at first glance. But there are some answers you can’t obtain by observing, no matter how hard or long you look. And I’ve never had the opportunity to ask questions before.
“Are you going to law school?” I wonder.
“No. Grad school.”
“For poli sci?”
“Yeah.”
Another surprise.
“Where are you going to grad school?”
“Not sure yet. I applied to ten different schools wanting to have options, and now—now I have to pick one. I used hockey as an excuse to put it off, but now that the season’s over…” He shrugs.
“Well, how many schools did you get into?”
“Ten.”
“Ten,” I repeat. “As in, every school you applied to? You got into every school you applied to?”
“Yep.” There’s no bravado in his voice.
If I was a genius, I’d brag about it.
“Wow. I—wow. Congrats, Hunter.”
He smiles a little. “Thanks.”
“So unfair that you’re smart too.”
Another full, heart-stopping grin appears. “ Too , huh?”
“I mean, you’re athletic. And most athletes aren’t academics. I mean, not most . I don’t really know many athletes, and I didn’t think you were dumb. Or that anyone is, that’s a really mean thing to say, I just…” I exhale. “Congrats on being smart and athletic. I’m going to shut up now.”
I should have sat in the car when he suggested it. I’m going to have to pretend to sleep for the rest of the drive so I can’t say anything else embarrassing.
When I gather enough courage to sneak a peek at him, Hunter is grinning at the wheel he’s working on. The old one is off already. He’s attaching the spare. “What about you?” he asks.
“What about me?”
“What’s your post-grad plan?”
“Oh. Uh…” I run my tongue along the backs of my teeth, stalling.
I used to enjoy talking about my plan. Back when it wasn’t only my plan. Ben backing out didn’t just devastate me because he was my boyfriend. It made me question everything.
I saw a dream. He saw a risky bet.
Am I just fooling myself, thinking I’ll be able to make it in New York? I’m not afraid of hard work, but I am intimidated by failure. I’ve saved as much as I can from summer jobs, but that still adds up to a sad total. A sad total that would stretch a lot further in Chandler. I think my mom has reluctantly accepted my move to New York, but she still makes a point to mention I could paint in Arizona almost every time we talk.
Be practical was my mom’s mantra. Because she had limited choices. She chose a career that allowed her to stay home with me and not have to pay for childcare. She stayed in the same town she grew up in because it was familiar.
But I’m not sixteen and pregnant. I can be selfish.
And my dad? My dad hasn’t even bothered to ask the question Hunter just did.
Hunter’s still waiting for an answer. Not in a way that makes me think he’s impatient or just trying to be polite, more that he’s asking because he actually wants to know the answer.
“I’m moving to New York,” I tell him. “Hopefully to be a full-time artist, but probably to wait tables or bartend. Whatever pays the rent.”
For some reason, I hold my breath, waiting for his reply.
“Good for you.”
“Yeah.” I exhale. “Working in the service industry. Really exciting stuff.”
“That’s not why you’re moving to New York, Eve.”
A thrill runs through me when he says my name. Just like earlier, I’m not cold anymore. Even the asphalt under my butt feels softer.
“No, it’s not,” I agree. “But pursuing art isn’t exactly…realistic. I’m probably setting myself up for failure.”
It’s the first time I’ve admitted that aloud. Because two of the people who know me best—my mom and Ben—have expressed concerns.
And you can’t share doubts with someone who’s casting aspersions. I’ve had to be unfailingly optimistic and upbeat and certain , and it’s a relief to be the worried downer for a change. To admit I’m scared it will be a mistake.
“That’s better than never trying at all,” Hunter says.
“You think?”
“Yeah. I do. But it doesn’t matter what I think. It’s about what you think.”
I think he’s right. That, as worried as I am about not succeeding, I’ll regret not trying a lot more.
I also think my crush on him is bigger than it was yesterday.