“No,” I say before he can get any further.
“You haven’t even heard what the idea is.” He laughs as he drives off. I sit back in the soft leather seat and shake my head vehemently.
“I already know I’m probably not going to like it.”
“Just like you didn’t like that kiss?” His lips twist up at the sides as he reaches over to run a finger down my cheek.
“It was an okay kiss,” I lie. My lips are still tingling, and I can feel every nerve ending on high alert. It should be a crime how badly I want this man.
“Just okay?” He shakes his head as he glances over at me. “Really?”
“I mean, yeah. I’d give it a five out of ten.”
“You would give that kiss a five out of ten?”
“Yeah. I mean, it was nothing special.”
“You’re telling me you’ve had better kisses.”
“I don’t want to hurt your feelings, Hunter, seeing as it seems to mean so much to you. So why don’t I bump it up to a six; make you feel better?” He laughs, shakes his head, and turns on the radio. An old song from the eighties plays, and he sings along.
“Do you want to hear something funny?” I say as I listen to Boy George singing “Karma Chameleon.”
“No, what’s funny? Don’t tell me you’re going to give my kiss a three now.”
“No. It’s about this song. When I was younger, and I used to listen to it, I always thought he was singing comma camelia. I know. I’m like a lyric disaster.”
“I’m not exactly the king of lyrics.” He bites down on his lower lip and looks over at me. “You’re not going to say it?”
“What?” I say, pretending I don’t know what he’s talking about.
“You’re not going to say I’m not the king of kissing either.”
“Now, would I be that mean?”
“I think you would be, Gina,” he says. “I really think you would.” He turns the music down slightly, and we sit there in companionable silence as he continues to drive. “I just want you to know that tonight went really well, and thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Obviously, whatever secret he’s holding means a lot to him. I don’t want to pry. I don’t want to outright ask him. I know even if I do, he will not tell me, but I hope that at some point, he’ll feel comfortable enough to tell me the secret. And it’s not even because of the article. It’s because I genuinely want to know. My moral compass feels like whatever he tells me as part of our friendship should be kept secret. But the other part of me feels like that’s the whole reason I’m here: to gain his trust and to find out the answers. If I want to save my job at theWhisper Cove Guardian, I need to stop focusing on the budding relationship between us.
“Stop,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?” he says, looking at me. “I didn’t hear what you said.”
“Nothing. Sorry,” I blurt out quickly. I’m mad at myself. I can’t believe that it’s eating me up inside this much that now I’m speaking to myself in front of him.“Do you want to look at some of those photo albums when we get back?” I ask him.
“The photo albums?” He sounds confused.
“Of your grandparents. When I was interviewing them earlier today, I was taken aback by something they both said.”
“What was that?”
“So I was asking them about when they first met, and I’ve been speaking to them separately now because that just seems to be more efficient.”
“I get it.” He laughs.
“Well, they both mentioned the same party, which was great, but then something that your grandma said made me think that part of the story is not as it seems.”
“What do you mean?”
