Foreplay (The Ivy Chronicles #1)(21)

Suddenly aware that Hunter hadn’t responded, I snuck another glance at him. He wasn’t grinning anymore. He was simply studying me. And not in a way he had ever looked at me before. He studied me like he was really seeing me. “Yes. I can see that.”

I tried not to fidget beneath his scrutiny.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” he continued, his familiar smile sliding back in place as the pensive look melted away. “I was wondering if you wanted to ride home together for Thanksgiving next month. Unless you have other plans.”

“No.” I shook my head, heart hammering with excitement at this sudden opportunity. Last Thanksgiving he’d gone home with Paige. Truthfully, I had been debating flying home rather than making the four-hour drive. Especially considering how unreliable my car was.

“Great. It will make the ride go faster to have someone to talk to.”

“For sure,” I agreed.

“Cool.” He nodded. “I don’t think I have your number.” He slid his phone from his pocket. “What is it?”

I rattled off my number.

“Great.” He pushed a button and my phone started to ring. “Now you have mine.”

I glanced down like I could see my phone through my jacket pocket. “Great,” I echoed.

“Let’s stay in touch.” He glanced back down at the time on his phone. “Man, I’m late. I gotta go. Meeting with my tutor. Chem is kicking my ass.”

“You should have picked a different major,” I teased.

“They didn’t offer basket weaving,” he countered, his expression mock serious. Like he somehow would have chosen the slacker course if it had been available.

“As if Hunter Montgomery would be anything less than a brain surgeon.”

“I’m actually interested in reconstructive surgery. Correcting birth defects . . . that type of thing.”

Of course. He wouldn’t want to be your standard plastic surgeon. Helping people who most needed it. That was his MO. Saving puppies and rescuing the new girl from bullies. Standing, he slung his backpack over his shoulder. He waved his phone lightly in the air. “Talk soon.”

I watched him weave between tables and exit the coffee shop. He passed the window to my right and waved cheerfully at me through the glass.

Yes. We would talk soon. Before Thanksgiving. I would see him again. A couple more run-ins like this and he might start to think of me as more than a friend, more than the girl he grew up with, more than his sister’s best friend. He would see me. Finally. Maybe.





Chapter 8

Stepping inside the Campbell house was like coming home. Only no home I had ever known. Mrs. Campbell greeted me, adjusting her earrings, as her two daughters raced past her and flung themselves at me.

I grabbed hold of them with a gasp, lifting both up off the floor.

“Pepper!” they cried in unison. “We missed you!”

“Hey, guys,” I gasped. “I missed you, too!”

“You like our costumes?” They both dropped back down to model and twirl in the costumes.

“I ladybug,” Madison announced, holding out her black tulle skirt.

Sheridan hopped several times to gain my attention. “I’m a princess!”

“You guys are awesome. These are like the best costumes I’ve ever seen. I didn’t even recognize you until I heard your voices.”

They tackled me again, elbowing each other to get in a better position. For two years old, Madison held her own remarkably well against her seven-year-old sister. I staggered, wincing as I stepped on what felt like a Barbie. I glanced down. Yep.

Mrs. Campbell closed the door after me. “Thanks for coming, Pepper. They’ve been bugging me all day about when you were going to get here.”

I dropped my bag near the door under the weight of squirming girls and readjusted my hold on them. “I wouldn’t miss a chance to hang out with my favorite monkeys.”

“I’m ready. Let me just round up Michael. We’ve had a minor crisis today. The garbage disposal died on us.” She shot a narrow-eyed look at her oldest daughter. “Sheridan might have decided to put some marbles down the sink.”

Sheridan’s face went pink. I rubbed her small back comfortingly.

Shaking her head, but still smiling, Mrs. Campbell waved me after her into the house. “C’mon. I made spaghetti and I have garlic bread in the oven.”

“It smells delicious.”

“Thanks. It’s my mother’s recipe,” she called over her shoulder. “Michael would probably prefer to stay here and eat that than the five-course dinner at Chez Amelie tonight.”

Even without the rich aroma of garlic, meat, and tomatoes, the renovated farmhouse always smelled good. Like vanilla and dryer sheets.

With Madison and Sheridan clinging, their skinny little legs wrapped around me like vines, I managed to follow their mother through the living room (avoiding additional Barbies) and into the kitchen, where Mr. Campbell stood over a guy who was half buried in the open cabinet below the kitchen sink, his long, denim-clad legs sticking out into the kitchen, various tools surrounding him.

“Michael. Our reservation is in forty minutes. We need to go. Can you please let Reece off the hook?”

My stomach bottomed out. Reece?

My gaze fixed on those long legs jutting out from beneath the sink. His face was beyond my vision, but I could make out the familiar flex of his tattooed bicep and forearm as he worked. My lips tingled, remembering how his mouth had moved over mine, and it took everything in me not to reach up and touch my lips.