“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’shim.
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?”
