But I can feel it—Hunter’s gaze burning through me.
Our eyes lock.
And hold.
My heart skips. Trips. Then takes off in a sprint.
It’s not the same feeling I got with Keith.
This is something else. Something wild. Raw.
When his hand drops from his face to rest on the table, I track the movement like a heat-seeking missile.
His forearms are ridiculous—corded with muscle, tan, veined in all the right places.
And then, just when I think I can breathe again, that smirk appears.
The one that never quite leaves Hunter Holloway’s face.
“Do you need a picture with him?” Ty asks, grinning. “You’re kinda staring.”
“What? No. Of course not.”
But I am.
Hunter doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away.
His eyes sweep down me, then climb back up, lingering.
I’ve never hated my server uniform more.
Jeans, a tucked-in chambray shirt, and a black apron that does nothing to hide the fact that I’m… curvier than most.
Aunt Miranda once called me “pear-shaped” like it was a death sentence.
Right now, I feel like my body is ondisplay.
And the worst part? I don’t hate the way Hunter is looking at me.
I drop my eyes to my server pad like it holds the answer to life itself.
I can’t keep looking at him.
It’s like staring at the sun—too bright. Too much.
How long did we hold eye contact?
Two seconds? Ten?
Whatever it was, we just shared a moment.
Ifeltit.
“We’ll all take a round of Easton Red Town Ale to start,” Ty says. “That’s local, right?”
“Yeah,” I reply, scribbling it down, trying not to let my hand shake.
Ty leans in, still amused. “Except for Hunter. He’ll take the cider.”
