A dad isn’t something I’ve ever had.
If Mom would just get out of her own way, maybe we could be one of those annoyingly happy little nuclear families. I think it’d be kinda great.
My mom is more stubborn than I am, though, so I know she needs to get there on her own. Rather than continuing to argue that she’s being crazy fighting her feelings for this super great guy who is clearly serious about her, I merely drape my arm around her shoulder and give her a little hug back. “He is.”
Chapter Eighteen
Riley
The one place in this school that I do like is the library. For me, it feels a bit like a sanctuary. As soon as I pass through the doorway into this haven of books and solitude, a little wave of relief rolls over me.
During my free period I like to slip in here and sit alone at one of the round tables in the back. It’s quiet and free of distractions. None of the jocks ever come in here unless they’re forced to, so it’s the perfect place to work.
I have textbooks and pages of notes spread out all across the surface, taking up practically all of it. There are two empty tables beside me, so I don’t feel bad about hogging this one. If anyone else needs a place to study, they can take one of those.
At least, that’s the logical thing I’m pretty sure any non-sociopath would do when they see a person busy working and two completely empty tables, but my peripherals register a flash of red T-shirt and dark wash jeans and then someone drops their books onto the small area of table beside me that I don’t have covered up.
Are you kidding me?
Shoving down a flash of irritation, I start gathering my things to make space for the intruder. I stop when I glance up—to shoot him a dirty look, whoever he is—and my heart stalls.
Hunter.
He flashes me a smile as he drops into the empty chair beside me. “What’s up, bookworm?”
My heart does a somersault, but I try not to let it show on my face.
This is the first time we’ve spoken since I showed up at his house the other day, and I’m not sure where he stands. His tone seems friendly enough, so maybe he comes in peace.
Since it’s him, I stop cleaning up and begin to straighten my papers back out across the table. I’m sure he’s not here to study.
I want to ask him why he is here, but my brain can’t seem to formulate words. I don’t know if it’s because I was in the zone making notes and then he just showed up and interrupted, or if it’s the strangeness of seeing him here in a space I consider mine.
I guess the library isn’t truly mine, but I’ve never been in here with anyone before—this is something I do alone.
It’s something I could definitely see doing with him, though. The old Hunter, anyway. I could envision him coming to the library with me while I study, goofing off and thoroughly distracting me—rendering the whole study period useless, but I’d enjoy it so much, I wouldn’t be able to be mad about it.
When the new Hunter cocks an eyebrow expectantly, I realize I have to speak.
“Getting a head start on my homework,” I murmur, keeping my voice low since we are in the library. “What are you doing?”
“Keeping an eye on you,” he states casually as he folds his hands behind his head and leans back—rather theatrically, if I do say so myself.
“Really? You’re not even going to pretend you’re doing anything else?”
Unapologetic, he shrugs. “Lying to you was never my thing, Catnip. I’m surprised you expect me to. Is that something your ex-boyfriend did a lot of?”
I frown. “Ex-boyfriend?”
“Kyle. Or… Evan. Peter?” He frowns, cocking his head and glancing up in thought, then says, “Christopher. It was Christopher.”
My eyes narrow on his face. I suppose he could be playing into the rumors Valerie has kept alive about me, implying I’ve been with so many guys, he can’t keep them all straight. It doesn’t seem like something he’d do, though.
“If you’re messing with me, I don’t understand the joke.”
“I’m not, honestly. Why can’t I think of that fucker’s name? Must not be very memorable. Bushy eyebrows. Boring face. He’s like a faithful pooch that woke up one day as a real boy. He’s on the team. Milner! Something Milner.”
My jaw inches open in surprise and a horrible surge of amusement swells up inside me. “Wow. You’re not even close.”
He waves it off, then leans forward on his elbows and leans over to take a peek at my notes. “Eh, whatever. His name doesn’t matter. What are you working on?”
“His name is Anderson,” I tell him, ignoring his question. “And he is not my ex-boyfriend, he’s my current boyfriend.”
He levels me a look of shock that I think he’s faking, but I can’t be totally sure. “He’s still your boyfriend?”
“Why wouldn’t he be?”
Hunter shrugs. “I don’t know, another guy sent his girl flowers—doesn’t seem like he’d be thrilled.”
I shake my head, focusing my attention on my notes and trying to hold onto some remnant of concentration.
“Or did you not tell him?” Hunter asks when I don’t offer an explanation.
I don’t like his tone, so I keep my retort succinct. “He knows I got flowers from someone.”
“But you haven’t told him who.” It’s a statement, not a question, but he pauses as if he expects an answer. Then, in a tone tinged with too much pleasure, he says, “Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting,” I disagree. “Maybe I’m just not a fan of conflict and it didn’t matter, so I don’t see the point.”
“Maybe. Of course, since he knows you got flowers from someone who isn’t him, he’s bound to be pretty curious about it. That means it is important—at least to him—which also means it’s more important to you not to tell him than to alleviate his concerns that some other guy might be trying to win over his girlfriend. I’d guess that might also lead to a fight, some distance—definite damage to the relationship. And you’re willing to take on all of that just so you don’t have to tell the guy I sent you flowers. Either you care so little about him, or…”
I am so annoyed by his dissection of my behavior, I shoot him a mild glare. “Or?”
He smiles, his brown eyes glinting wickedly. “Or you care so much about me. You still have a little crush, Riley? A little lingering interest? I bet he’d like that even less than the flowers.”
Even though I don’t want him to think I’m agreeing with his assessment, I can’t help tossing back an overly cavalier, “If I didn’t tell him about the flowers, what makes you think I’d tell him that?”
Hunter nods like that’s what he expected to hear. “So he’s insignificant. That’s what I figured, but it’s good to have confirmation.”
We’re getting a little too mean, so I decide I should knock it off and defend the guy a little. Anderson did annoy me yesterday, but he hasn’t done anything to deserve that.
“He isn’t insignificant. Anderson is a perfectly nice guy. I wasn’t agreeing with any of the nonsense you just spewed—”