“I ... I um ...” I don’t know why I’m trying to formulate words when I’m pretty sure the room is actually spinning.
“That was ...” Hunter seems as dazed as I am. “Wow.”
“Yeah. Wow,” I repeat. Part of me is grateful we were interrupted, because I’m completely overwhelmed that his kiss has hit me this hard, thisdeep. I’ve never had a first kiss like thisever, with anyone.
Hunter quirks one eyebrow. “For two intelligent people, we’re awfully articulate right now.”
He surprises a laugh out of me.
“Do you want to keep dancing? Or go back home?”
“Dancing,” I say immediately. “But ...” I take a deep breath, trying to calm my still-racing heart. “As amazing as that was ... and it was really,reallyamazing ... are you okay if we take it—this—whatever is happening—slow?”
Hunter takes my hand and spins me under his arm and then back against his body. “As long as you’re not asking me to stop, we can take this as slow as you want. I’m not interested in a fling, Liv. I’ve never been that guy. I’m in this ... with you. Whatever that looks like. If you’ll let me.”
I’m in this ... with you. The words echo through my head, straight to the core of me. I press a little bit closer to him, relishingthe strength of his body and the security of his arms around me. He leads me in what I’m fairly certain is some form of a waltz.
“You have to stop being so perfect,” I say, words I never thought I’d feel—or say—about Hunter Barrett when I first met him.
He laughs this time, a burst of sound that lights up his whole face. If he was beautiful before, laughing Hunter should be illegal. “I have been accused of many things in my life but never perfection.”
“Then they didn’t know you like I do.”
“After less than a month?” He gives me his trademark smirk, but I sense a deeper need for my answer beneath his seemingly blasé mien. I’ve hit a nerve.
“I mean it, Hunter. Just because someone has known you longer doesn’t mean they’veseenyou. I’m not sure that how long you’ve known someone matters—it’swhatyou share with them that counts. And you and I ... well, at least for me, I’ve told you things about myself ...” I flush.
Hunter holds my gaze, his uncertainty softening into something gentle and steady. “I get it. You’ve shared parts of yourself with me that very few people know. AndI’veshared things with you that I haven’t shared withanyoneelse.” There’s something so raw and open in his eyes it makes me ache. “We already know each other,” he says quietly. “Soul to soul.”
“Soul to soul,” I whisper back.
Hunter bends down, but this time, he doesn’t kiss me. Instead, he rests his cheek against my temple. I lean into him, my heart beating steadily, a wash of calm and peace descending over me as he holds me in his strong, solid arms.
“Tell me about your bucket list,” Hunter says softly in my ear as another ballad swells around us and the crisscrossing strands twinkle overhead, like fairy lights. “When did you make it?”
“The day I found out I was getting my heart, with Talia.” That night in the hospital seems so far away—and still so close, somehow. “I felt so guilty ... I was so heartbroken for the family who lost their loved one so I could live. Talia told me whoever my donor was, she was gone, regardless of whether I got her heart or not. And if I was going to get the unbelievable gift of a second chance at life, I needed to cherish it. While we waited for my mom to come and for me to be taken back to pre-op, she got me to come up with a bucket list—of all the things I wanted to do with my new lease on life.”
Hunter presses a soft kiss into my hair. “What a gift to have a friend like that.”
I nod, leaning my head into his as we sway to the music, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his cologne. “I’ve been very lucky to have her in my life. And Lou too.”
There’s a pause, and then he says, “Lyla was an organ donor. And I can tell you, if I knew that she helped save someone to make bucket-list dreams come true, it would help—at least a little bit. To feel like there wassomepurpose in the tragedy of her death.”
I hold him tighter, not knowing how to respond. The guilt he carries for his sister’s death is something that will never truly go away. We’re quiet, turning slowly in a small circle, clinging to each other.
After he’s had a minute to regain some control, he asks, “How many things on your list have you done?”
I grimace, even though he can’t see me. “Not very many,” I hedge.
“What does that mean?”
“Well ... including my own private ball tonight?”
Hunter nods.
“Like, three?”
“Three,” he repeats, flat. “Out of how many?”
