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Awareness prickled over me as we moved past the Lover’s Loop sign to the evening-haloed gazebo.
The floor was still broken where Hunter had fallen through it. We stopped at the edge of the ramp, staring in. “Why are we here?” I asked softly.
My palms sweated and I clasped my crossed arms under my armpits.
Hunter dropped his gaze and jerked his camera bag to his lap. “It’s golden hour.”
Rich lighting glazed the classic framework. It was pretty, sure. But was that the reason he’d led me here?
I hoped not.
He rounded the gazebo and roughed it over the grass to take pictures from multiple angles. He stopped at the arched window, crimson roses flanking him, and set his camera on the sill.
“Got the perfect shot yet?”
“A few.” He patted the gazebo. “Thing’s a real beauty.”
His fingers drifted to the side of the arch and rubbed. “Your parents’ names?”
“I’m imagining them, twenty-six years ago, maybe kissing on this windowsill before inscribing their names. Dan hearts Mary.”
Hunter smiled softly, picked up his camera, and took a shot of it.
“What are they like, your parents?”
“They’re a team. They’re each other’s biggest cheerleader.”
“Do you see them often?”
“They visit here a few times a year, and I drive home for major holidays. We call a couple of times a week. Tonight, actually.”
I edged inside the gazebo and perched on the sill. Dan and Mary’s names glowed. “Were you like the Brady Bunch family?”
“We had our share of fights, but ultimately, yeah.”
I laughed. “Sounds nice.”
“They’d like you.”
“Maybe we should put that theory to the test?” I said, gnawing my bottom lip. “I mean, I want to interview them for the Scribe . . .”
Hunter lifted those intelligent blue eyes to me. “Come over at eight-thirty. We’ll Skype.”
We parted ways at the Scribe office, and five minutes after I’d gotten home, I called an Uber and headed to Hunter’s.
I pounded on his door.
Startled, he opened it. “I said eight-thirty. It’s six-thirty.”
“I’m hungry. Are you hungry? The cute little Italian place up the road makes their own pasta. We could eat and be merry.”
Be merry? What the fuck?
“Are you asking me out to dinner? Like a date?” Hunter seemed confused—wary?—and my chest did a panicky leap to my Adam’s apple. “There’d be nothing boyfriendy about it. More like, two people who need to consume food for survival, doing it together.”
“Dinner. For survival?”
I slipped my hands into my back pockets, reaching for calm. “Uh huh.”
“Wow.” Was that a smile twitching his lips? “What a proposition.”
I lifted a brow. “I suppose afterward we could do other things needed for survival.”
Hunter snickered, rubbing his nape.
I rocked back on my heels. “It’s cool if you’re not into the idea. A beautiful man like you probably has a bunch of better offers for dates. I mean dinner.”
Hunter’s smile softened, and a glimmer of vulnerability illuminated his eyes. He grabbed his leather jacket and keys and pushed past me. I shut the door behind him.
“That’s the second time you’ve called me beautiful.”
I halted a step on the ramp, cleared my throat, and caught up to him. “You are, Hunter.”
Hunter smiled and we headed for the restaurant side by side.
“Later,” he murmured, “after the call with my folks, ask me again about my thoughts on . . . survival.”
Mary Hunter filled Hunter’s laptop screen with soft-looking sandy curls and a sweet smile. She had Hunter’s blue eyes and charming live-in-the-moment confidence.
All the nerves I felt over preparing to meet her melted instantaneously. When she laughed to someone off screen with a vibrant, playful “piss off”—I was in love.
“. . . and you’re Travis’s . . .?” Mary let the sentence hang. I stiffened, and Hunter shook his head, laughing lightly.
“We work at the campus paper together.”
Hunter’s cheeks flushed pink. Suppose it was awkward to explain we were more like friends with foolery.
Mary spoke like she was teasing, a cheeky twinkle in her eye. “Are you the guy my son has been hanging out with online all summer?”
I snorted. “Are you relieved I’m not a pervy catfisher?”
Hunter groaned.
I clasped Hunter’s shoulder, laughing against his bicep. “Your mom wasn’t the only one who worried. Uncle Ben, too. Truth? I’m glad you turned out to be you.”
Hunter’s lips hopped as he gazed back at me. “I’m glad too, Marc.”
A tiny smudge of tomato sauce reddened the curve of his mouth, which totally explained why I was staring at his lips.
I startled as a male voice jumped from the laptop. A bearded man wrapped his arms around Mary’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. Hunter’s dad. They shared the same broad chest and straight nose. “How’s it going, son?”
His eyes shifted between us, curious.
Hunter rubbed a palm over a deep smile. “Pretty good. This is Marc.”
Dan’s eyes glittered. “So good to put a face to the name.”
How much had he talked about me? I grinned, flushing. “Anyway. There’s a purpose for this call.”
