“So you’re not an item,” she stressed.
“Right,” I said around a lump of bitterness in my throat. “We’re just…friends.”
Then why does it feel like dying to admit that?
“Well,” Vanessa said sweetly, tapping her cards on her lap. “As it happens, he doesn’t see things the same way as you do. Which brings me to the following item. I’d like to invite my next guest, Hunter Fitzpatrick!”
My heart jerked inside my chest like a snake had bitten it. I sucked in a breath and blinked as he came into focus, wearing a smart, camel-hued suit—accessorized with his killer cheekbones, taunting smirk, and beautiful blond locks swept backward. His blue, blue eyes zeroed in on me as he strode into the studio, leaving no room for questions.
He was the Hunter.
I was the prey.
He sauntered to the center of the stage. Instead of taking a seat next to me on one of the blue loungers—in front of Vanessa—he remained standing, putting a mic someone from the production team gave him to his mouth.
“Well, fuck me,” Hunter spoke into the microphone, running a hand through his velvet hair. His feline eyes, so wildly exotic and blue they caught every sliver of light in the room, glittered with mischief. “I just realized something pretty depressing, Vanessa.”
“What is that, Mr. Fitzpatrick? And please use appropriate language for a morning show.” The pedicured host flashed a dazzling smile to the camera, by way of apology.
It was blatantly obvious she was torn between being delighted at this new, unexpected outburst that would surely bump up her ratings, and horrified about him dropping the F-bomb on television, especially because most of her viewers were housewives and young mothers.
I tried to regulate my breaths, acutely aware my heart flapping here and there in my ribcage.
“I’m in love with Sailor Brennan. Shit. Okay, that’s no good.” He chuckled, strolling the length of the studio with the microphone in his hand, frowning. “End me now, Vanessa. For I’m already toast. It is much, much more embarrassing than my other brush with fame. Then, I had my dick out. Now, I have my heart on the line. My friends are going to have a field day when they see this. I was the last one standing, you see. I thought I was immune from the L-word. I always made sure to put a condom on my emotions before talking to a chick, let alone doing anything more. So many women have left me over the years, I figured leaving them first was the best course of action. But you, Sailor, you’re the one I won’t let get away.” His eyes burned darkly, intensely, like a fire catching as they bore into mine. “Serial killer much? Yeah, but it’s the truth. I’m not letting you leave me.”
People laughed in the audience, and poor Vanessa’s tight smile evaporated into a look of horror.
I barely managed to comprehend what he was saying. It felt like an out-of-body experience.
Hunter Fitzpatrick was confessing his undying love to me.
Publicly.
So painfully publicly.
I’d told him I thought I was his dirty little secret, so he’d made a public declaration. In the car back from Maine, he’d asked what it would take. A ring…a contract… And what did I answer? To stop being ashamed of us. This was him proving to me that he never was.
“And of course,” Hunter spread his arms, continuing his monologue, “in true Fitzpatrick fashion, I had to go and fall in love with the daughter of a…” He paused, backtracking when he realized what he was about to say. “A legitimate businessman, unless proven otherwise.”
The audience burst out laughing, and I blushed. Hunter turned around, found my gaze, and smiled. It was a smile I’d never seen before. It wasn’t taunting or sexy or entertained. He looked boyish, almost sheepish. There was something deliciously innocent about that smile. I wanted to capture it, take a picture, frame it, and tuck it under my pillow.
“Fuck me, Sailor Brennan. You really did a number on my heart. I guess what I’m trying to say—while offending the ears of every middle-aged housewife in this state—is that this is real. It’s always been real. You said I never wanted you, but the truth was, I never wanted anyone but you. Not really. But I hadn’t realized it until you walked away, and for the first time in my life, I couldn’t eat, sleep, or breathe. I see you, aingeal dian, even when you’re trying to hide. Especially when you are trying to hide. I cannot unsee you. I’m like that kid from The Sixth Sense. Only you’re not dead, and I’m not hella annoying.”
More laughter. I realized some of the giggling came from my throat. I also realized I was choked up, my eyes coated with tears through which I watched him, blurry and defiant and a changed man, but still the same guy I’d grown to admire.
He walked to my seat, crouching down on one knee in front of me in an act of pure submission. “Angry angel. Aingeal dian means angry angel. The first time I held you in my arms, at the fundraiser event, two things occurred to me. The first was that I couldn’t let go of you, even if you asked really, and I mean really nicely. The second was that I was unworthy of keeping you. I ran away from you my entire life without even knowing you, Sailor. But the moment I met you—okay, maybe a few weeks after that—I figured out not having you was not an option. So, here I am, asking for a second chance. And some ass. But the ass can definitely come later. I just want us to be us. Together. Exclusively. DoorDash and Netflix galore. Like a real couple and shit.”
“Mr. Fitzpatrick!” Vanessa gasped, putting a hand to her chest, pretending to be scandalized. “For the love of God, language!”
Hunter and I shared a conspiratorial grin.
“My bad. Anyway, that’s the bottom line. I’m stupid in love with you, Sailor Brennan. Will you have my dumb ass? Flaws included. No returns.”
“Fourteen business days to return said butt, and I get my full heart back if your performance is not to my satisfaction.” I started bargaining with him on live television.
This was what we did. We bantered.
His eyes lit up with mischief. “You never complained about the performance during your free trial period.”
“Meh.” I shrugged. “It was free. Paying for something with hearts and other organs is a completely different matter.”
“Fine. I believe in my product. You got yourself a deal.” He stood up in front of me. I reached my hand between us to shake on it. He took it and jerked me up, engulfing me in his huge arms.
He pressed a kiss to my mouth, a Hollywood-worthy kiss—the type you see in ’90s movies seconds before the credits roll.
I was Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, an unlikely heroine in my own story.
I heard the audience stand up and cheer for us, clapping and whistling and laughing with joy. In the background, Vanessa was talking about young love and about finding yourself in another person. It sounded like she was reading it from the back of a Philosophy skincare bottle.
Hunter’s lips left mine for a beat, and I growled my protest immediately, searching for them again.
“Say yes,” he breathed into my mouth. “Say you’ll never leave.”
“Never,” I murmured. “I love you so much, Hunter. It terrifies me how far I’ll go to save you.”
“However far that is, know I’ll go even farther for you.”