11. Sutton #2
Hunter enters the kitchen a few moments later, looking like a snack. Something about that man dressed for work—boots, button-up, badge on his belt, and that damn Stetson—has always made me feel some kind of way.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, beelining right for me, his attention locked on my face.
The pesky butterflies in my stomach riot, something they’ve been doing a lot more of lately.
He leans in without hesitation, close enough that my stomach leaps, my brain scrambling to catch up with the fact that Hunter Michaels might actually be about to kiss me.
Easton clears his throat. Loudly.
Hunter freezes and glances past me at Easton. “Oh.” He straightens, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t even see you there, Easton.”
I smile, cheeks warm as embers. “So . . . funny story.”
For the next few minutes, I fill Hunter in on the absolute rollercoaster ride today has been. Easton pipes in periodically, seeming just as excited about the project as I am.
Hunter listens attentively, arms crossed over his chest. “You and Easton will be spending a lot of time together.”
I suppress my laughter at his jealous streak.
Easton chuckles. “Don’t worry, man, I’m not here to steal your girl.”
Hunter’s only response is a grunt as he sets his cowboy hat on the table. He picks up a paint sample, studies it for a moment, and looks up at me. He turns back to the colors. “You sure about these?” He sets down a paint sample. “They’re pink.”
I waggle my eyebrows. “That must have gotten in there by mistake.” If he forgot he told me once upon a time I could paint the master bedroom pink, that’s his own fault.
Hunter gives me a side-eye. “Alright . . .” He turns from the table and says, “What’s the game plan?”
Easton and I spend the next thirty minutes giving Hunter a rundown of our remodel plans and timeline.
He told me to build us a country house, so that’s exactly what I’m doing—new cabinets, countertops, paint, furniture, and decor that will make this house feel like a home.
By the time we walk Easton out, Hunter is fully on board with my vision.
Hunter and I wave to Easton from the porch. “I guess,” Hunter says, “you’d better help me pack and figure out how much of my stuff has to be out of the house.” We walk back inside. “Especially if I’m going to try staying here while you remodel it.”
We start in the kitchen, which takes all of twenty minutes. The fact that this man only has a small mishmash of plates and utensils, one pan, and a single pot always boggles my mind. Hell, as far as small appliances go, he’s only got a coffeepot and toaster.
I stare at the lonely stack of plates sitting in the cabinet. Kitchen shit, I add to my mental shopping list. The bachelor life and Hunter have been friends for far too long.
“Let me guess,” Hunter says, “you’re making a list again, aren’t you?”
“Maybe,” I shout over my shoulder as I head upstairs toward the guest bathroom. Tingles trail up the back of my neck at his ability to know exactly what I’m thinking.
I take down the shower curtain and shove it in a garbage bag. He hasn’t given me a budget, so until he says otherwise, it all goes. I grab my toiletries from under the sink, step out of the bathroom, and place them near my purse to take home.
“You’ll bring those back, right?” Hunter comes around the corner from his room. He’s changed out of his work clothes, now sporting a teal Henley and jeans.
“Um,” I say. “Do you want me to?” I don’t know what makes me ask. I’m pretty sure I know the answer. Ever since he found out about my fake Find Love profile, he’s not hidden the fact that he knows exactly what he wants.
Me.
I haven’t quite gotten over my What if I cross that line with my best friend and it all goes to shit and I spend the rest of my life alone and unhappy hurdle.
“Sutton,” he says, hands braced on his hips. His eyes churn with desire and determination. He takes two steps closer, leans near my ear, and says, “You and I both know the answer to that.”
My hands immediately cover my belly, silently telling the butterflies in my stomach to calm down. His answering grin tells me he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“L-lets . . .” I pause to get my wits about me. “Let’s keep working.”
He gestures toward the hallway. “Lead the way.”
The guest rooms are mostly empty save for the bed I use and a desk. We bring the furniture out to the barn. I’ll either refurbish what he has or buy new. Back inside, we make quick work of the living room and move on to his bedroom.
Pillows are tossed on the floor, the blankets are mussed in every direction, and the fitted sheet is pulled off the corner of his bed.
Whenever I’ve stayed over (and the two times we’ve shared the same bed), he slept like the dead and barely moved.
Something has been making this man toss and turn all night.
“You not sleeping well?” I grab a few pillows and set them in a pile against the wall.
He looks up from where he’s seated on the edge of his bed going through his nightstand. “Not since Friday.” His eyes never look away from mine.
I drop the blanket I’m folding and sit next to him. “Want to talk about it?”
His shoulders slump, and he lowers what looks to be a pile of greeting cards to his lap. “Work is a lot right now.”
“You haven’t said much about your case. What’s going on?”
“It’s not much of anything yet, honestly.”
Hunter gives me the brief rundown on the case—key word being brief. “We know they’re running narcotics, but all roads have been dead ends.”
I heard him say just as much around the guys. “Did something happen after you left last week?”
He shakes his head, defeat pouring from him.
“So why can’t you sleep?”
“Been worried about you.” His gaze meets mine.
“I’m good, Hunt. I promise,” I say. And it’s the truth. “It didn’t happen how I thought it would, but it was time to talk about the miscarriage. It sounds weird, but I actually feel lighter somehow now that they know.”
“That’s great, Sut.” He fidgets with a torn envelope.
I take the pile of cards from his hands and flip through them.
A few birthday cards from his grandma. A get-well card from Luke that must be over a decade old.
A graduation card from his parents. Halfway through the pile, I recognize a card.
I quickly leaf through the rest of the pile. I recognize a lot of these cards.
Because I wrote them.
I pick up one of my cards and read it, then I look at Hunter. “You kept my cards?”
He shrugs his shoulder, goes to his closet, brings back a worn shoe box, and sets it in my lap.
My hands smooth over the top. “What’s this?”
“Open it and find out.”
My heart pounds in my chest as I open the lid. “Hunter, are these . . .”
“Every card you’ve ever given me? Yep.” He smiles. “Dig a little deeper.”
I grab a handful of cards and pull them out of the box.
I burst out laughing when I see what’s at the bottom of the box. “Oh my gosh, is this the letter I sent you?”
“Sure is,” he says. “Pretty sure you were a junior in high school?”
Mortification spreads across me as I read it. “This is . . .”
“Cute.”
“Pathetic,” I correct, and we both laugh.
“If I remember right, junior year was pretty rough?”
“Try sophomore, junior, and senior,” I say, rereading the card and remembering the girl who wrote it. “Between friends and boys and lack of college aspirations and you and Luke being gone I was struggling.” I hold the letter up. “When I wrote this, I was so lost and lonely.”
When I wrote the letter, Mom and I were headed to the pizza parlor near the bowling alley.
Turns out, running into your entire friend group who’d gone bowling without you can make even the most seemingly popular girl feel lonely.
I wanted nothing more than to talk to Hunter, but he was off at college and harder to get ahold of.
I poured everything I was feeling into a letter instead.
“Why would you save this?”
He grins. “Hold it up to the light and look a little closer.”
I have no idea what he’s getting at but do as he says. At first, I don’t see anything. Hunter looks over my shoulder and adjusts the angle. I immediately burst out laughing. “Oh my god.” I laugh even harder until eventually I’m cry-laughing.
With the right lighting, I can perfectly make out words from the impression of a pen. The page is filled with various versions of my signature with Hunter’s last name.
“Now you see why I kept it.” He smiles.
“It’s embarrassing reading this now,” I say.
“Why?”
“High school isn’t nearly as great as the movies make it seem.”
My so-called friends I found at the bowling alley? They would never see me sad again. That’s when I started portraying only the bubbly, energetic version of myself.
I fold the letter and place it at the bottom of the box. Hunter places the cards from his nightstand inside and returns it to the top of his closet.
“I’ll start packing up your bathroom, okay?” I say.
“Sure thing.” He shakes his head. “But don’t for one second think I didn’t notice how you completely changed the subject.”
My cheeks flame. “I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. This week’s been a lot for me too, okay? Sue me if I don’t feel the need to reopen every emotional wound I’ve ever endured.”
He holds his hands up in surrender. “Understandable.”
For the next hour, we work in companionable silence. He turns on music, and before long, we’re both singing along to our favorite country songs while we pack.
When we finish, we haul the boxes out to the barn to give Easton’s crew enough room to begin demo. When we walk back inside, the house feels different. Empty.
I glance around the bare kitchen and try to picture what it’s going to look like when it’s done. Then I picture what it’s going to look like tomorrow. “Are you sure you’re going to be able to stay here while we work?”
Hunter shrugs and walks to the refrigerator, pulling out two beers. “It’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m in and out for work most days, so as long as I have a quiet place to sleep, I’m good.”
He twists the cap off a beer and hands it to me.