Daphne gasps. “What? No way.”
“Steer, actually. But I win.”
She groans. “Ugh. Fine.”
Hunter doesn’t look at me when he asks, “What do you want out of this summer?”
My heart does that weird thing again, like it wants to retreat and jump forward at the same time.
“I want,” I say slowly, “to finally figure out who I am when I’m not following someone else’s script.”
Daphne claps from the back. “Mic drop!”
Hunter gives a small, crooked smile, but his eyes don’t leave the road. “Good answer.”
We settle back into the music, and Chris Stapleton’s rough, soulful voice carries us the next stretch of the drive. Hunter’s hand brushes mine on the center console—accidental, probably—but I don’t move it.
Eventually, his fingers find mine. He squeezes once, silent and sure. My chest tightens.
Friends with benefits. Right.
So why does it feel like we’re already writing something bigger?
30
FAITH
The gravel crunches beneath the tires as we turn down a long wooded drive, tall oaks and pines arching overhead like a tunnel of secrets. Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the hood of Hunter’s truck in gold. It smells like lake air and pine needles. Fresh. Wide open.
“Whoa,” I say, sitting up straighter. “This is the lake house?”
Hunter glances over at me, smirking. “I did say it was nice.”
Nice is an understatement.
The trees part, and the house comes into view—two stories, wraparound porch, big wooden beams and whitewashed siding. There’s a hammock swinging between two trees, and in the distance I catch a glimpse of the lake, still and sparkling in the late afternoon sun.
Daphne lets out a low whistle. “Okay,Holloway. I see you.”
Hunter parks, cuts the engine, and hops out, grabbing a bag from the back.
I open the door, step down, and inhale deep. It’s quiet in a different way than the outskirts of Vansborough. Calmer. Like something here doesn’t expect anything from me.
Hunter comes around to my side, just as the front door opens.
And then I freeze.
A woman stands there in a white sundress and sandals, her auburn hair piled on her head, a glass of iced tea in her hand. She smiles—kind, but wide-eyed—and I just know.
Hunter stops short next to me. “Mom. Hey.”
Mom?
Oh no.
I stare at him, throat tightening. Heinvited me to a lake house weekend with his mom here?
Daphne, from behind us, murmurs, “Wait, is that your mom?”
