I blink. “Who?”
“Hannah’s mom.”
My hand tightens around my glass. “Oh.”
“I just wanted to thank you. What you did was so brave,” she says, reaching out to gently squeeze my shoulder.
“Just doing my job,” I say truthfully.
“Put his next round on my tab,” she tells Luke. “This man is a hero.”
Before I can protest, she walks away with the sound of her high heels clacking against the floor.
Well, I suppose I might as well take advantage of this shitty situation. I down the rest of my beer before ordering another.
Strangers continue approaching me throughout the evening, thanking me for saving Hannah’s life. They offer to pay for my drinks, and I let them. My brain feels floaty, which is a welcomed change from the uncomfortable anguish I felt earlier. Suddenly, all the weight I normally carry feels much more manageable. The bills. The stress. The near drowning.
Someone drops onto the stool beside me.
It’s Hunter. He watches me with an uneasy expression, eyeing the empty beer glasses gathered on the bar top. He gives me a lopsided smile. “Hey, Superman.”
“Hey,” I reply, my voice embarrassingly shaky.
“I saw your truck out front. Thought I’d check in. Heard what happened at the beach today.”
“Are you gonna buy me a drink, too?” I ask, slurring.
He shakes his head. “No. I think you’ve had enough.”
I huff. “Whatever.”
His expression softens as his gaze drifts over me, like he’s scanning for injuries. When his eyes lift to mine, the air catches in my throat. God, his eyes are beautiful—warm and brown, like honey. I could drown in them.
“Seriously, though,” he says quietly. “Are you okay? That was… a lot.”
I wave a hand dismissively. “I’m fine.”
“Alright, tough guy,” he teases.
I scowl. “Iamtough.”
“I know you are,” he says, gently humoring me like I’m a child. “Did you get my flowers?”
I pause mid-sip, the rim of my glass hovering against my lips. The bitter, hoppy flavor lingers on my tongue. “Yes.”
“Did you like them?”
“They were pretty,” I admit. The next words slip out before I can stop them, surging out like water through a broken dam. “Pretty like you.”
Hunter’s face freezes before a small, nervous smile cracks on his lips. I watch the lump in his throat bob up and down. His lashes flutter slowly, uncertain.
“I think that’s the beer talking, Mason.”
I gulp. “Maybe.”
I wouldn’t have the nerve to tell him I think he’s pretty when I’m sober. I’m never that bold, but drunk words are sober thoughts, or whatever.
“So… do you forgive me?” he asks quietly.
