Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Several days pass before I see Hunter again. I’ve been avoiding him like the plague. Every day at the beach, I keep my head down, focus on my job, and force myself not to look for him. As much as I’m dying to see him, I can’t. Not after what happened at the bar.
I made a complete fool of myself. He saw a broken, fragile version of me that I normally keep hidden from everyone. I can’t face him after that.
One afternoon, I caught a glimpse of him crouched in the dune grass, face buried in his notebook.
His brows were scrunched adorably, the way they always get when he’s focused.
The moment he lifted his head, I ripped my eyes away and turned my back.
I heard him call my name, but I pretended I didn’t.
Even if he thinks I’m an asshole, I’m doing him a favor. He says he wants to be friends, but he doesn’t know the real me. The real me would scare the shit out of him.
It isn’t until I’m working a shift at Beachside Burgers that I finally see him again.
I’m in the middle of bussing tables when I spot him alone at a booth in the corner, eating a veggie burger.
My breath catches. He’s wearing a short-sleeved gray checkered button-up and dark jeans.
Beneath the table, I spot black Converse with rainbow laces.
The pop of color stands out in a way that seems deliberate.
I want to turn around and hide in the kitchen, but I’ve got half a dozen tables to clear. Fuck.
I keep my head down as I shovel plates and cups into a plastic bin. The dishes clatter together loudly, and I wince at the sound, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
“Mason?”
Hunter’s voice makes my hand twitch, and I drop a dirty fork onto the floor.
“Shit,” I mumble, bending to pick it up.
But Hunter’s faster. He snatches it up and drops it into my bin before I can. He offers a small, tentative smile that I don’t return.
“Thanks,” I mutter, not meeting his eyes.
I can feel my cheeks burning. I know I look like shit. I’m sweaty, flushed, and my apron is stained from hours of work. My long hair is pulled into a half-assed bun at the nape of my neck. I probably smell like fry grease.
“Have you been avoiding me?” he asks softly.
There’s a hint of hurt in his voice that stings more than I expect. He’s fidgeting anxiously with his fingers, his nails now painted a bright yellow. My favorite color.
“No,” I lie. “Just been busy.”
He raises a doubtful eyebrow. “Alright.”
I glance toward the dirty tables I haven’t cleared. “I need to get back—”
“Is it because I’m gay?”
I freeze, my stomach sinking with regret. “No,” I say quickly. “Of course not.”
“It’s just… I hope I didn’t freak you out with the flowers. I know you’re straight. I wasn’t trying to make it weird. I wasn’t hitting on you or anything.”
My throat constricts. I want to correct him. I want to tell him I’m gay and think he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, but I can’t. At least, not here. Not in public.
“No… the flowers didn’t bother me,” I say, shaking my head. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just… I was embarrassed. After the bar.”
He frowns. “Embarrassed? Why?”
“Because… you shouldn’t have seen me like that. It was pathetic,” I say, staring at the floor.
“You watched a child nearly die that day, Mason. I would’ve been a wreck if I was in your shoes.”
I shrug. “Yeah, but then I got drunk and said a bunch of shit I shouldn’t have.”
His lips twitch. “Like calling me pretty?”
My mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. “I—uh—I didn’t— I mean—”
He giggles and gently touches my forearm. The contact is fleeting, but it makes my heart soar.
“Relax,” he says, grinning. “I’m just teasing. I know you didn’t mean it. You were drunk.”
Except, I did mean it with every fiber of my being. I was drunk, but I wasn’t that drunk. But instead of telling him the truth, I nod like a coward.
“Yeah. I was wasted,” I say with a chuckle.
“So… are we good? You promise you’re not going to ignore me anymore?” he asks.
The sadness in his voice makes me feel like a douchebag. I didn’t mean to make him feel bad. I thought I was protecting him by staying away, but maybe I was just protecting myself.
“I promise,” I say.
“Cool.” He beams before glancing toward his table, eyeing his half-eaten burger. “My food’s probably cold now. I’ll stop bothering you and let you get back to work. Have a good rest of your day, Mason.”
I nod. “You too.”
He turns to his table, but I clear my throat. He looks back at me expectantly.
“And, uh… you don’t bother me,” I say quietly. “I actually like talking to you.”
His cheeks flush, and he bites his bottom lip to hide the smile. “I like talking to you too.”
Then he turns and walks back to his table. I quickly bus the remaining tables before scurrying into the kitchen, pushing through the swinging doors. I set the overflowing bin next to the sink, breathing hard.
My heart’s still racing. I swallow hard before accepting the terrifying truth: I have a crush.
***
Hunter’s crouched in the dunes, partially hidden by tall grass as he hammers wooden stakes into the sand. Each whack of the rubber mallet echoes faintly in the warm summer breeze. I’m not sure what the hell he’s doing, but I assume it’s part of his research.
He’s clearly struggling with it. He pauses every few minutes to catch his breath, hands braced on his knees, chest heaving.
I can’t abandon my post to help him. In a selfish way, I kind of enjoy catching glimpses of him like this—all sweaty and frustrated, his golden skin glistening in the heat. The sight does things to me. Things I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about while at work.
When my lunch break finally rolls around, I flip the NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY – SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK sign on the tower and hop down. The sand feels hot beneath my bare feet as I approach him, trudging uphill.
“Need a hand?” I call out.
He looks up, face red. “Please.”
I take the mallet from him and drive the stake into the sand with a few solid hits. I wiggle the tip to test its sturdiness. It doesn’t budge.
“I hate you. You made that look so easy,” he groans, wiping his forehead with the back of his arm.
I laugh. “What are you setting these up for, anyway?”
“I’m marking perimeter zones for research plots,” he explains, pointing to a diagram in his notebook. It’s a messy sketch with dimensions and coordinates.
“Hunter, you really gotta explain these things to me like I’m five years old,” I say, only half-joking. “What’s the point of research plots?”
He grins. Not in his usual condescending way—in a sweet, patient way. “The plots basically allow me to test different hypotheses in a natural environment. I’m investigating how invasive species affect the pollination rates of Pitcher’s Thistle.”
“Pitcher’s Thistle,” I repeat. “That’s the one I stepped on at the parade, right?”
He nods, surprise flickering over his face. “Yeah. I can’t believe you remember that.”
I shrug and try not to look directly at him. The truth is, I remember everything about the night we met. Meeting Hunter felt like some kind of cosmic event where the stars shifted.
Clearing my throat, I gesture toward the remaining stakes. “Want help with the rest? I’ve got fifteen minutes left of my lunch break.”
He shakes his head, cheeks pink. “You don’t have to waste your break on this.”
“I really don’t mind,” I reassure him. “Seriously.”
“Thanks,” he says and hands me another stake.
“Just show me where you want it.”
The second the words leave my mouth, I realize how it sounds. Hunter bursts out laughing and clutches his stomach. My cheeks feel unbearably warm, and I want to crawl beneath the sand and bury myself like a crab.
“Oh, I’ll show you exactly where I want it,” he teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
This is torture. I don’t think my face can get any hotter.
Hunter snickers at my reaction, shaking his head. “Relax. I’m just teasing you,” he says. “Follow me.”
He paces twenty yards away and points to a spot in the sand. I hammer stake after stake, marking out the corners of a plot. Hunter follows behind, stringing bright yellow twine between them to mark the perimeter.
“Thanks,” he says, smiling warmly. “Seriously. I appreciate the help.”
“No problem. I can help you with the remaining plots tomorrow, if you want. I’ve got the day off.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “You’d really do that?”
“Yeah. Least I can do, after you drove my sorry ass home from the bar,” I admit with a shrug.
His smile grows. “Meet here around noon?”
“Sure.”
“Great. It’s a date,” he says with a wink.
I stare at him, lips parted.
He snorts. “That was a joke.”
I laugh shakily. “You’re an asshole sometimes,” I mutter.
“Sorry. You’re just so fun to tease,” he says, eyes twinkling with mischief.
My stomach flutters. I’ve never felt like this before—so out of control of my own emotions. It’s horrifying.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I mutter, turning back toward the lifeguard tower.
I don’t look back, but I can feel him watching me. I flip the sign again before climbing back up the lifeguard tower. As I watch the lake and scan the waves, every nerve in my body feels buzzed and raw.
Aliyah was right—crushes suck.