Peyton Church is a city girl by anyone's standards. Born and raised in New York City, she grew up wanting for nothing. She attended the most prestigious preparatory schools, shopped on Fifth Avenue, dined with the rich and famous and was adored by...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
IT'S LIKE SOMEONE dumps a bucket of ice water on my head. I turn to look at Hunter, but by the time I regain my balance, he's already gone, his back disappearing around the corner to the kitchen.
A second later, the door that leads to the backyard slams shut, the sound echoing in the silence.
I barely hear Eliza mutter, "What a drama queen," followed by a dull smack and a soft huff of pain. I don't know if she's talking about me, or if she's throwing her insult at Hunter. But it doesn't matter.
Cameron's face has sobered, his smirk fading to a concerned frown. "Peyton," he starts, his voice level.
I hold up a hand to cut him off, my eyes fixed on the doorway Hunter disappeared through. "Don't," I say firmly, shaking my head. "I'll be back."
I hear my friends, especially Addison, call after me as I briskly walk towards the doorway and round the corner into the kitchen. My surroundings are a blur around me as I focus on making my way to the other side and through the French doors.
Cameron's backyard is hardly a massive piece of land. In fact, I've been in bathrooms that take up more square footage than the small fenced-in space. But in this case, I'm thankful for the lack of space— as well as Hunter's lack of shoes— because it means I find him the moment I step through the patio doors.
"Hunter," I call out softly as I close the door behind me. The sound of my voice seems to surprise him as he looks up from where he's staring dourly at the tall wooden privacy fence that isolates the yard from the outside world.
His face doesn't light up when he sees me, the dim light above me giving off enough of a glow for me to see that his scowl reaches his hard blue eyes. "Go back inside, Peyton," he grumbles, turning away sharply.
Whereas my name sounded foreign when Cameron had said it a moment earlier, coming from Hunter's lips it sounds like an alien word to my ears. I'd only heard him say it a handful of times over the past few weeks, and I'd grown rather accustomed to responding whenever somebody said "Skirt" around me, however much it irritated me.
And now, not hearing that irritating pet name stabbed through my chest more than any insults he could have flung my way.
The stone we stand on is cold through my socks, but I cross the patio towards him in spite of it.
Against my better judgement, I lay a hand on his bicep, my head tilting to the side even though he can hardly see me though the back of his head. "I'm sorry, Hunter," I say, in earnest. "I mean it."
"Whatever," he grumbles, shrugging so that my hand falls back to my side. "It's not like I care, anyways. It's not like you're actually my girlfriend."
I shiver— from the cold air or his chilly demeanor, I'm not sure. "Still. That wasn't cool of me to do."
