He gives me a look I can’t decipher. “You know, you’re a really nice guy, despite your best efforts.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain.”
He laughs and mimes zipping his lips.
I glance over my shoulder at the empty tower. “I should go, but… it was nice talking to you.”
“Yeah. You too,” he says, rocking back on his heels.
As I walk back to the tower, I try not to think about how warm he looked in my hoodie. Or how he didn’t hesitate to put it on. Or how I kind of want to let him keep it forever.
God, I’m in so much trouble.
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 asaladfrom 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?”
