Chapter 24 #2
We talk a bit about the deal he and Lou closed, and then I finally ask him about the ideas he has for the bakery.
He eagerly tells me about a local Swedish festival and some other opportunities he thinks could be really successful for minimal cost—like offering a free pepparkakor cookie as a reading--program reward for elementary school students—to get families to come in or something.
I try to focus because they are really good ideas, but I’m too distracted by what his thumb is doing on my skin and why such a small touch is making my whole body thrum.
We finally turn in to the Marriott at the Buttes in Tempe. “Are we going to Top of the Rock?” I’m wide-eyed as his car surges up the hill.
“Yes.” He glances at me, and for the first time, he looks a little nervous. “I hope that’s okay. I have a friend who recommended it and said the views are incredible.”
“I’ve lived here for eleven years, and I’ve never been. I can’t wait!”
We valet park the car, and Hunter places a light hand on the small of my back to guide me toward the restaurant.
That hovering brush of his fingertips against my spine makes me shiver, even in the balmy evening air.
The sun hangs low, streaking the sky with blazes of crimson and burnt amber.
Sunsets in Arizona don’t just happen—they set the world on fire.
“It’s gorgeous,” I breathe. “You can see the whole city.”
“The view is gorgeous,” he agrees, but when I glance at him, he’s looking at me, not the city below us.
I duck my chin to try to hide my blush. I hardly know how to handle this Hunter—the one who is openly interested in me and isn’t throwing me for constant emotional loops. If I thought he was risky for my heart before, I’m really scared for the things I’m feeling with him now.
“Should we head in?” Hunter gestures.
A couple coming out of the restaurant holds the door for us.
The wife does a double-take at Hunter as we walk past. I want to scowl at her, but Hunter doesn’t seem to notice—or does a great job of ignoring her reaction.
The hostess of the restaurant is clearly trained well, as she betrays no reaction when Hunter checks us in for our table, but not all the -employees or patrons are quite as discreet.
I notice several stares and comments being made while we wait and as we walk through the restaurant to our table.
We make quite the pair, carrying our stories on our skin—the puckered red skin attesting to my borrowed heart showing above my dress, and his skin grafts and scars.
But between the two of us, it’s clear he bears the bigger burden in public.
Halfway across the restaurant, I reach for him, sliding my hand into his.
He threads our fingers together without looking, gripping tight.
Maybe this stings more than I realize. He wears his indifference like armor.
We’re seated outside with an unobstructed view of the entire valley below us. The sun has dropped below the western hills, and the city lights flicker in the spreading shadows of nightfall. The weather is perfect, a warm night with a slight breeze.
As I scan the menu, I catch Hunter looking at the scar delving below the V-neck of my dress. When he realizes I’ve caught him, rather than look away or try to play it off, he meets my gaze boldly and says, “I love that dress on you. You really do look amazing.”
I flush and resist the urge to duck my head again—or tie my napkin around neck. “You look pretty amazing yourself.”
“That explains all the stares I’m getting tonight,” he says deadpan.
“You want the truth?”
He nods, wary, as if bracing for impact.
“You’re really attractive, Hunter. And I’m not just saying that to make you feel better,” I add quickly, noticing the way he presses his lips together, one eyebrow lifting with suspicion.
“You have this . . . this presence around you that commands attention. You’ve got the whole tall-dark-and-brooding thing going on.
Your hair looks like you stepped out of a movie, your jaw could inspire a sculptor, and don’t even get me started on your eyes. ”
He lifts both brows now, clearly amused. My face is probably fire-engine red.
“I mean it,” I barrel on, too late to backpedal now.
“People look because you’re gorgeous. But then they see the scars .
. . and it throws them. It’s like staring at a statue with a crack in the marble—you’re still struck by the beauty, but your eyes catch on the flaw.
Maybe because they don’t know what to do about it.
But if they ever got to know you, like I have, they’d look even longer, not because you’re beautiful despite the scars but because they are part of what makes you attractive.
They tell the story of what you’ve endured. ”
Hunter’s eyes are unwavering on mine across the table, but he’s silent, his expression inscrutable.
“But I . . . I know that doesn’t make it any easier.” I don’t think my cheeks could get any hotter.
Finally, he slides his hand across the table to cover mine. “Thank you for not cutting me out of your life after I acted like a complete jerk.”
That startles a laugh out of me. “Um . . . you’re welcome?”
“Seriously, Liv. I don’t know what I did to deserve a second chance, but I’m so grateful you gave me one.”
“You’re only saying that because I spent the last few minutes telling you how hot you are.” I try to brush off his words, but his fingers tighten around mine. His eyes are unyielding, the green flecks darkening to jade in the flickering candlelight on our table. It makes my heart catch in my chest.
“No. You spent the last few minutes trying to make me feel better about the reality I live with. I wish I could say I’m totally used to the stares by now.
I should be—it’s been long enough. But sometimes it still takes me off guard.
Sometimes it still hurts. Especially when I’m with a beautiful girl who I want to sweep off her feet with a romantic evening.
” He swallows. “But having you say all that—and the way you’re willing to look at me like you are right now, with no fear, no repulsion .
. . I can’t tell you what it means to me.
” A shadow flickers over his face. “I wasn’t lying when I told you Colette wouldn’t touch my scars .
. . She wouldn’t even look directly at them.
She never said anything, but she always tried to sit on my good side.
She only posted pictures of us where the scars weren’t visible.
“I tried not to let it hurt me—because I get it. I wouldn’t have wanted to look at them or touch them either.
But even though I understood why she did it, it still hurt.
And then for you . . . for you to be so .
. .” He stops and clears his throat. “It means a lot. That’s all.
So, again, thank you for giving me another chance. ”
I don’t know what to say. I’m half furious at Colette and half melting at the way he’s looking at me.
Before I can respond, our server comes over to introduce herself and take our drink orders.
Hunter gets a Coke, and I ask for a strawberry mint lemonade.
I kind of love that I don’t have to worry about him drinking on our date.
Though I’m heartbroken for his reasons why, I’m grateful I won’t have to worry about drunken advances from him or having to fight him for the keys to drive home safely.
During dinner we talk about our childhoods—the early years, before the hard stuff started to hit.
When he talks about the antics he and his sister pulled, his whole countenance lights up.
I can tell how much he loved Lyla; it makes even more sense why his guilt is so all-encompassing that she’s gone.
It sounds like they were more than brother and -sister—they were best friends, even though they were four years apart.
I tell him about my brothers, too, sharing my stories of the creative ways we tortured each other . . . and our parents. We’re laughing and happy and full by the time they clear our dinner plates and ask if we want dessert. Hunter looks to me.
“Even though it sounds good, I probably shouldn’t.” As much as I want the skillet cookie, my cardiothoracic surgeon’s warnings of avoiding sugar and my recent hospital visit are enough to bolster my self-control.
“Okay, I’ll be right back with your check.” The server whisks our plates away, and we’re left with a slight lull in our conversation.
“So . . . now comes the dancing?” The easy flow of our dinner is gone, and my nerves are back in full force. I’m not very coordinated. And I’m regretting these heels in a major way, though I did catch Hunter checking them—and my legs—out at least twice since our date started.
“You’ll see.” Hunter’s lips curve up as he leans back in his chair, totally at ease. I love seeing him like this, relaxed, happy, unconcerned about anyone else around us.
I did that. I made him happy, I think, a warmth igniting in my chest and pushing away some of my nerves.
After he pays, he takes my hand and carefully guides me back into the restaurant.
But instead of going to the car, he leads me down the grand staircase that winds to the level below the restaurant.
There’s a hallway with bathrooms, and I think that’s (weirdly) where he’s taking me, when instead, he pauses outside a large doorway that leads to what looks like a ballroom or something with an incredible view of the valley below.
Twinkle lights are strung across the ceiling; lit candles flicker on all the tables and on five-foot-tall candelabras.
The entire scene is magical—it looks like it came straight out of a Hallmark movie.
But sadly, it’s roped off, with an employee blocking the entrance.
Rather than passing by, Hunter walks straight up to the young man, with me in tow.
“Hunter Barrett,” he says, and the employee nods, unhooks the velvet ropes, and lets us pass.