Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Sand flicks behind my flip-flops as I trudge toward the lifeguard tower. The lake glitters in the morning light, deceptively calm as waves lap against the shore. My gaze sweeps the beach, always searching for danger.
That’s when I spot it near a patch of dune grass—bright red splattered across pale sand.
Blood.
My chest tightens as I crouch down, examining it. It’s too much blood to be from a papercut or a kid’s scraped knee. I glance ahead, noticing the trail of crimson droplets leading further up the dune. I follow it without thinking, my pace quickening with every step.
At the top of the dune, Hunter is sitting cross-legged on the ground, his face pale. Blood dribbles down his arm as he fumbles with a wrinkled Band-Aid wrapper. His hands are shaking, and the adhesive keeps sticking to his palm instead of the cut near the base of his thumb.
“Jesus,” I exhale.
He startles, looking up at me with wide eyes. “Oh, hey, Mason. I’m fine. It’s nothing.”
“Nothing?” I kneel and instinctively take his hand, tilting it toward the light. The cut gapes, angry and raw. “What the hell happened?”
He bites his lip. “I was using a pocket knife to take a plant tissue sample, and… it slipped.”
“It’s deep,” I mutter. “I’ve got supplies in my truck. Follow me.”
He shakes his head frantically. “No, really—it’s fine. The DNR has a first aid station, I can just—”
“Dude, stop talking.” My voice comes out firm and assertive. “You’re bleeding all over my beach. Get up.”
He sighs dramatically before standing, cradling his hand against his chest. I stay close as we trek down the dune, Hunter’s overstuffed backpack thumping with each step. By the time we cross the lot, a thin trail of blood drips down his wrist.
I pop the tailgate of my truck and grab the first aid kit. Flipping it open, I glance at him. “Sit.”
He plants his sneakers on the asphalt, shaking his head. “I can patch it up myself. You don’t have to—”
Rolling my eyes, I toss the kit onto the tailgate and step forward, crowding his space. “This is literally my job. I’m trained in first aid. Stop being stubborn.”
He frowns, brows creasing. “I’m not stubborn. I just don’t need your help.”
God, this guy is infuriating.
Before he can dart away, I grab his hips and hoist him onto the tailgate. He even lighter than I expect, and the move startles him enough that he lets out a high-pitched yelp.
“Hey! What’s wrong with you?” he snaps, glaring up at me, cheeks flushed pink. “Do you just go around grabbing people like that?”
“I do when they’re injured and being difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult—”
“You are.” I nudge his knees apart and slide between them, grabbing an antiseptic wipes. “Now, hold still. This is gonna sting.”
I catch his wrist, his skin cold beneath my touch. The pulse there hammers against my thumb. His hands are smaller than mine, delicate, his nails painted a pale lavender that looks almost out of place against the streaks of blood.
Hunter exhales sharply through his nose as I press the wipe to the wound. He hisses, shoulders tensing.
“Yeah, I know,” I murmur, quickly swiping away the blood. I clean the long trail that’s dried along his forearm. The whole time, I feel his eyes on me. “You’re lucky it’s not deeper. You’d need stitches otherwise.”
“You sound like my mom,” he says, wincing again.
I ignore him, digging through the first aid kit for gauze and medical tape. “Try not to move.”
His eyes flicker up to mine, golden brown like amber. “You’re really bossy, you know that?”
“Comes with the job,” I reply, coiling the gauze tightly around his thumb.
That earns me a soft laugh, a quiet puff of relief between his gritted teeth. When I finish taping the bandage, I let go of his hand and take a step back. I busy myself with snapping the kit shut, grateful for the excuse not to meet his eyes.
“Thanks,” Hunter says, hopping down from the tailgate.
“Sure, whatever. Just be more careful next time you’re holding sharp objects.”
He smirks faintly, shouldering his backpack. “Yes, sir.” With a little salute, he turns and heads toward the path that winds back to the dunes.
What a weirdo.
I shove the kit behind the seat and slam the tailgate closed, watching him until he disappears over the ridge. Then I drag a hand down my face, trying to shake it off, and start the slow walk to the lifeguard tower.
The lake gleams ahead, calm and glassy, but the drumming in my chest still hasn’t settled. I must be seriously touched-starved if I get this worked up just from bandaging someone’s hand. Especially someone like Hunter—stubborn, nerdy, irritating… and annoyingly beautiful.
By the time I climb the steps of the tower, I’m scolding myself, wondering how the hell I let him get under my skin like this.
***
Beachside Burgers is a hole-in-the-wall joint tucked between a souvenir shop and a nail salon. Although the restaurant’s small, it’s full of charm. The walls are decorated with classic beach-themed décor: seashells, anchors, and paintings of seagulls.
I’m bussing a table, shoveling dirty dishes into a plastic bin. The tables are littered with soggy French fries, greasy burger meat, and onion rings. My apron is damp, stained from a long day of scrubbing dishes, and I can feel sweat pooling between my shoulder blades.
Back in the kitchen, I scrape the gunk off each plate and dunk them into a sink full of suds. The water is too hot, the gloves too thin. I’ve barely started rinsing when I feel a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Mason,” Jim says. “Liz and I are drowning out here. Can you run a delivery?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
The words come out too fast, too eager, but I don’t care. A delivery means tips—and air conditioning in my truck.
Untying my apron, I grab the bag from the counter. It’s warm in my hands, the foil-wrapped food radiating heat through thin plastic. I glance at the receipt stapled to the front. It’s a vegetarian bean burger with a side of fries.
I grimace. Beans are disgusting.
The address is on Sunset Avenue, right in the middle of Claremont Shores’ wealthy neighborhood. It’s the kind of place where every house has an underground pool, even though Lake Michigan is literally across the street.
I slide into my truck, crank up the A/C, and set the delivery bag on the passenger seat. It’s an eight-minute drive, just long enough for my shirt to stop sticking to my back.
2987 Sunset Avenue turns out to be a massive two-story house, white stucco with floor-to-ceiling windows that gleam in the fading daylight. It has modern lines, perfect landscaping, and a goddamn fountain in the driveway.
I park at the curb, grab the food, and walk up to a porch overflowing with flower baskets and potted plants. There’s a video doorbell next to a frosted glass front door. I press the button, the chime echoing inside.
It takes a frustratingly long time for someone to answer the door. I sigh and shift my weight, foot tapping impatiently against the concrete.
Finally, the door swings open.
And of course—of fucking course—it’s him.
Hunter Davis stands in front of me wearing a skin-tight crop top and gray sweatpants. His hair’s messy like he just rolled out of bed. His glasses are a little lopsided, but he quickly adjusts them.
“Oh,” Hunter says, surprised. “Hi, Mason.”
God, he’s pretty. The kind of pretty that makes my jaw clench.
His sweatpants hang low, and I catch the waistband of Calvin Klein underwear poking out. His lower stomach is a flat canvas of tan skin, a line of hair disappearing beneath the hem of his pants.
I immediately look away.
“Um, hi,” I mutter, shoving the food into his hands like it’s radioactive. “Here’s your order.”
An amused smile tugs on the corner of his mouth. “You work for Beachside Burgers?”
“Obviously.”
“I just meant… I’m confused. Aren’t you a lifeguard?”
“I am,” I reply dryly. “Some people have to work more than one job, y’know.”
He looks surprised—like that thought simply never crossed his mind before. I bet he’s never worked a day of actual labor in his life.
He hands me a wad of cash. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, tucking it in my pocket. I glance at the bag in his hands. “So, bean burger, huh? Are you a vegetarian?”
“I am, and I’m struggling to cook right now,” he says with a self-deprecating laugh, lifting his hand. The bandage I made yesterday is still wrapped tightly around his thumb.
I raise an eyebrow. “So you’re a vegetarian named… Hunter?”
He laughs—an actual, genuine laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Yeah, that’s original,” he says sarcastically. “First time I’ve ever heard that one.”
“Well, it’s ironic.”
“I know. My parents probably regret not switching my name with my twin brother’s. He’s a total carnivore. Would’ve made more sense.”
My ears perk up. “You’re a twin?”
“Yep. Landon. We’re identical, but like… opposites.”
We stand there for a second, silent, as I rock back on my heels to glance up at the house. It looks like it belongs in a magazine. I can’t even wrap my head around living somewhere like this.
Hunter follows my gaze. His expression shifts, almost embarrassed. “It’s not mine. It’s a rental.”
As if that makes it any less obscene. The rent on this place is probably my entire month’s salary.
“Uh-huh.”
He scratches the back of his neck, suddenly awkward. I open my mouth to ask something else, but he cuts me off.
“Sorry, I was rambling. You probably need to get back to work. Thanks again.”
I want to tell him it’s fine. That I don’t mind listening. He’s weirdly fascinating—like some kind of alien dropped into Claremont Shores by accident. He’s out of the closet, wealthy, clearly very smart. Everything I’m not. Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about him.
“Uh, yeah. I’ll see you around,” I say, stepping off the porch.
“Have a good night, Mason.” He gives me a soft smile before closing the door.