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He laughs. I do too, like it’s a ridiculous idea. Then we’re quiet for a beat.
Should I offer to meet her? Except that’d mean lying to her in person, unless he wants her to know the score about our marriage. “Hunter,” I say carefully, setting a hand on his arm.
“Yes?” His tone is strained again.
“I’d love to meet her, but I don’t want you to feel like you have to lie to her about…us,” I say.
He scratches his jaw, seeming lost in thought. “I know what you mean. Maybe it’s easier not to.”
I nod, accepting that answer. “Maybe it is.”
“But you’d like her. She loves sports and music,” he says, upbeat again. “I learned American football from her. Her dirty little secret is she never liked our football.”
“I already love your mom. Soccer sucks.”
And I kind of wish I could meet her. As we pass a tube entrance, Hunter says, “Your sister lives in Los Angeles? Do you see her much?”
“On FaceTime, I see her a lot. I actually went to see her the day after I met you in June.”
“Because you needed something to do so you wouldn’t miss me so much?” he asks with a playful spark.
I did miss him, but hell if I’m going to admit that. “We visited some amusement parks during the day with her kids then drank wine at night and toasted to being divorced. She and her husband split up recently.” Since it’s not exactly a secret, I add, “She was married to Sebastian Lowe.”
“The Oscar winner? The one who came out after he won the award?”
“Yup. He’s actually a good guy. We all grew up in the same town. There was no animosity when they split. Just no, well, spark.”
“Wow,” Hunter says as if he’s taking in the personal angle on what had been front-page celebrity news when Sebastian came out. “That’s big. How the hell is she doing?” He doesn’t ask how long she knew, whether she suspected, when he figured it out. That’s not my story to tell.
“She’s pretty good, all things considered. They get along for the most part, which is great since they have two kids.”
“That’s good,” he says. “And nice that you were able to commiserate with her and spend some time with wine too.”
“Yeah, wine can be good company. But it’s even better in company with a cute guy,” I say in an invitation to flirt.
But instead, Hunter frowns. “So, you met cute guys while on your wine drinking trip?” His jealous growl is adorable and sexy.
“Nope.” I remember something he told me in Vegas—that I was the first and only guy he’d done more than kiss. I can give him a similar reassurance. “I was saving myself for you,” I tease.
Hunter rolls his eyes. “Right.”
And that was a sarcasm fail on my part. Probably a flirting fail too. “Actually, I mean it, Hunter,” I say, earnestly. “I haven’t been with anyone else since you chucked pie at me.”
His lips curve up, and it’s like he tries to fight off the grin. “I get it. I’m irresistible. It’s hard to find a man who wants to cream pie you and marry you.”
I laugh and when I recover finally, I say, “But it wasn’t a cream pie, Hunter.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Details.”
Hunter is irresistible, though, so I take his hand and thread my fingers through his. My heart skitters. He didn’t mind PDA in Vegas, or at the airport, but this is his hometown. Guys don’t always want to hold hands. “You good with this?”
“Very, very good with it,” he says.
We walk like that the rest of the way to work as he tells me his favorite parts of the city. We pass newsstands, a shop called An Open Book, where Hunter says he likes to pop in from time to time, then a Mediterranean restaurant with an awfully familiar sounding name. By the time I’ve reached his office, I feel like I’ve not only learned more about his family, but I’ve discovered fun little details about his life.
Plus, we’ve made plans to go out tonight after my dinner. We’re going to visit the coffee shop in Bloomsbury where William got his start. They serve the best affogatos in the evening, Hunter tells me.
“It’s a date,” I say, and it really is.
Finally, I’ve figured out how to tackle romance again—with an expiration date.
27
SHOWTIME
Nate
No wonder the name of the restaurant I passed this morning felt familiar. It’s where I’m having dinner with Less is More.
That evening, I walk up to the window of Fattoush so I can quickly appraise my reflection. Dressed in a light blue button-down and tailored pants, do I look like the all-American good guy that Less is More hired to peddle its organic bars rather than a dude who went on a drunken bender and wound up in a twenty-four-hour chapel?
