He reaches across the table, plucks the cherry off my milkshake, and slides it between his lips.
I inhale sharply. “Hunter?—”
His eyes don’t leave mine. He draws the stem out between his lips, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he worksit. And I sit there in silence, watching him, my thighs pressing together under the table because I already know exactly what that tongue can do.
He sets the cherry down on the napkin and places the stem beside it.
Tied into a perfect knot.
My pulse trips over itself. “Very impressive, sir,” I tell him, biting back my grin.
“Yeah? Tell me what dirty thoughts are rattling around your head right now, firefly.” He picks up his milkshake and sucks it through the straw without breaking eye contact.
“Uh. How I assumed you’d go for the vanilla milkshake.”
His eyebrow arches. “Me? Vanilla?” He leans forward. “You want me to bend you over this table, push up that cute little red sundress of yours, and make your ass the same color? Or are you going to tell me what you’re really thinkin’?”
I rest my elbow on the table, chin in my hand, and drop my voice to a whisper. “I’m thinking about how good you are at eating my pussy, sir.”
He clears his throat and adjusts himself in his jeans. “Knew it.” He winks.
And my panties are done for. He takes off his hat and sets it on the table between us, running a hand through his dark hair. And then his whole energy shifts. The playfulness doesn’t leave, but something deeper settles underneath it. “Tell me all about Lola. Everything you think is important for me to know.”
I smile. Because it doesn’t feel like an intrusion. It doesn’t feel like an interview or a test or someone mining for information they can use later. It’s him wanting to learn me. The real me. And I’ve never had someone ask like that before. And it’s as if whatever I say will be enough. I’m pretty sure I could tell this man I’m a serial killer, and he’d be cool with it.
“How about you ask questions, and I answer? Then I’ll do the same to you.”
He nods. “Alright. Deal. What was your life like in New York?”
I swallow hard. “Starting tough. Okay.” I wipe my hands on my dress and sit up straight like I’m about to give a speech at a podium. “It was busy.”
He chuckles. “I was waiting for a damn presentation there, firefly. It was busy?”
I laugh. “Hang on. I’m trying to find the words.”
I pretend to scowl at him. He grins. “It was busy because I was living my life exactly how my parents always have. They own one of the biggest fashion houses in New York. I studied business because they want me to become CEO one day. Then I became Lola Jackson, the online fashion influencer. Their social media rep. The face of a ton of other brands—hair, makeup, travel, you name it. I was the pretty face and the hot body to sell their products.”
I’m almost out of breath by the time I finish. It comes out like a dam breaking—all of it, everything I’ve been carrying, pours across the table of a diner in the middle of nowhere. And it’s not a horrendous life. Not by any means. I never went without anything material. I never starved. Never struggled.
I just went without love. Without present parents who saw me as a daughter instead of a brand.
Hunter doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t judge. Doesn’t tell me I’m ungrateful or that people would kill for that life. He just listens. Like every word I’m saying matters to him. I’ve never had that before. A man who sits still and hears me.
“Can I see?” he asks, his voice rough.
“See? You could just search me. Haven’t you done that?” I’m genuinely surprised. I mean, I even tried to look him up.
“Nope. I want the real you. Not the girl online.” He pauses. “Although I bet I’d be obsessed with her too.”
I pull out my phone, open my page, and slide it across the table.
He starts scrolling. And I watch it happen, his jaw ticking, his body shifting in the booth, his eyes going wide.
“Fuck, Lola.Fuck.” He bites his lip. “You’re fucking beautiful. You know that, right?” He hands the phone back to me. “But this ain’t who you want to be?”
I look down at the screen. I'm in sunglasses, partying in Miami, in a bikini that costs more than some people’s cars.
“No.” I shake my head. “I know it sounds crazy. But that’s what I ran from. I don’t want my parents’ life. I don’t want to sell their products with my face and my name.” I find the landscape photo I posted and turn the screen back to him. “This is who I want to be.”