Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
The Beachside Burgers kitchen buzzes with chaotic energy. Employees scurry around frantically, struggling to make it through the dinner rush. The grill hisses with sizzling patties as the fryer pops with oil. My nose burns with a mixture of salt, grease, and sunscreen.
As I wait for the sink to fill up with hot water, I briefly check my phone. My bosses know I’m responsible for Maddie, so they don’t mind if I check my texts during my shifts.
I’m surprised to see two messages from an unknown number. My heart drums uncontrollably as I read them.
Unknown Number: Hey! It’s Hunter. :)
Unknown Number: Are you at Beachside today?
I smile like an idiot at my screen. I save his number in my contacts and send him a quick reply, confirming that I’m working. Then, I slip my phone into my pocket and continue washing dishes, elbows-deep in hot soapy water.
I’m scrubbing a frying pan when Jim calls my name.
“Mason!” he shouts, waving a receipt in the air. “You’re up for delivery.”
I peel off my rubber gloves, the insides damp with sweat, and walk over to him. “Huh?”
He shrugs. “Customer requested you by name.”
I squint at the receipt.
Customer Name: Hunter Davis
Delivery notes: Please send Mason to deliver it!
Of course. If my face could physically get any hotter, my cheeks would certainly flush.
Jim watches me, amused. “Friend of yours?”
“Uh. Something like that,” I say, tucking the receipt into my back pocket. “I’ll be back in fifteen.”
I grab the takeout bag off the counter and examine the order. House salad and a strawberry milkshake. Of course, he ordered a salad, which is somehow worse than his usual bean burger. Who the hell orders a salad from a burger joint? But the milkshake gives him partial redemption.
I hop in my truck, crank the A/C, and drive toward his rental house. My fingers twitch nervously around the steering wheel, sweat sticking to my palms.
When I pull up, I kill the engine and grab the bag and milkshake. I make it halfway up the porch steps before the door swings open.
Hunter stands there in a pale pink T-shirt and black athletic shorts, hair damp like he just got out of the shower. He’s holding something in his arms: my red hoodie.
“Hey,” he says with a warm smile. “Right on time.”
“You have terrible taste,” I tease, handing over the bag. “A salad? Seriously?”
He gasps dramatically, like I’ve offended him. “Excuse you. Some of us actually like fiber.”
“I like vegetables,” I retort, grin tugging on my lips. “When they’re deep-fried and dipped in ranch dressing.”
He snickers and hands me some cash. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks," I mutter, tucking it in my pocket.
“This is yours, too,” he says, holding out my hoodie. “I wore it, like, three more times than I probably should have. It’s insanely comfy.”
I accept it. It feels warm, like it’s fresh out of the dryer.
“I washed it for you,” he says. “Thanks again, for letting me borrow it. You’re a lifesaver.”
I smile sheepishly. “Well, that’s my job.”
“I think that’s less of a lifeguard thing,” he says, his tongue working across his teeth, “and more of a Mason thing.”
I roll my eyes. “You really give me too much credit. I think you’re forgetting how much of an asshole I can be. Maybe I need to be meaner to you.”
He bites back a smile. “And here I thought you were just starting to warm up to me.”
That makes me shift on my feet. Shit. Maybe I’m not doing a good enough job at concealing my feelings.
“You know, I’m back on the lifeguard stand tomorrow. You could’ve waited till then to give this back,” I point out.
He shrugs, casual but not. “Maybe I didn’t want to wait that long. Maybe I wanted to see you.”
The porch is quiet except for the distant sound of waves crashing on the shore behind us. The breeze is warm and gentle, swirling the wet fringe around his temples.
“Well,” I say, adjusting the hoodie under my arm, “have a good night.”
He grins. “You too. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Sure. Okay.”
My voice sounds colder than I’d intended. I can feel him watching me as I walk to the truck, and when I glance over my shoulder, he’s still standing in the doorway.
I don’t let myself smile at him.
I climb into my truck and shut the door with a loud rattle. I set my hoodie in the passenger seat. For a moment, I just sit there and stare out the windshield, trying not to panic.
As I drive back to the restaurant, I take a few deep breaths. I replay our conversation in my head, remembering the way he looked at me when he said he wanted to see me. As if he was excited. As if he possibly likes me back.
I definitely fucked up.
I let myself flirt too much. I was having fun and not thinking about the consequences. One too many dirty jokes, one too many grins. I was stupid and reckless.
I need to stop letting this feel like more than it is. I can’t have a crush. It’s a fruitless effort.
Because it can’t be more. Not with him. Not with anyone.
***
I feel like an asshole. I promised Hunter I wouldn’t ignore him again—and yet here I am, doing exactly that.
When I saw him for the first time this morning, it was accidental. I noticed him out of the corner of my eye, sitting in his research plot. He’s wearing a pair of black athletic shorts that cling to his ass.
When he caught me staring and waved at me, I looked away and pretended I didn’t see.
He’s approached me a couple times since then. He’s skipped up to the lifeguard tower, smiling like nothing’s wrong, his voice light and hopeful. I’ve given him clipped responses and cold shoulders in return. It pains me every time, but I force myself to do it for his sake.
When my shift ends, I try to slip away unnoticed. I keep my head down as I cross the lot, making a beeline for my truck. But he’s already there, leaning against the driver’s side door, arms crossed over his chest, brows pulled together in frustration.
God. Even when he’s angry, he’s so stupidly cute. And it’s making this a hell of a lot harder.
“What’s your problem, Mason?” he demands.
I freeze in my tracks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He jabs a finger into my chest. “Don’t do that. You’re ignoring me. Again. Is it because I was flirting with you yesterday when you delivered my food? Because let’s be honest, you’ve been flirting right back.”
My hands ball into fists. “I’m sorry if I led you on.”
“Led me on?!” he scoffs. “I told you I wanted to be friends, Mason. The flirting was just a joke. Do you really think every gay guy is incapable of being friends with a straight guy?”
I frown. “No. I—”
“You know what I think?” Hunter asks, taking a heated step toward me. Our chests are almost touching, and I can feel his hot breath against my neck. “I think my first impression of you was right after all. You’re just a small-town, homophobic asshole.”
I swallow. His words shake me, and my stomach churns.
“I’m not.”
“Sure, buddy,” he grumbles, backing off.
I immediately miss the warmth of his body heat.
“Hunter—”
“Fuck you,” he growls before storming away.
He vanishes into the woods, disappearing down the trail that leads to the park.
I stand there, frozen. The logical part of my brain screams at me to let him go, to leave this alone. But my body doesn’t listen, and my feet move on their own.
I chase after him.