Marc Jillson & The Gazebo (Love Inscribed 2)

“Gym. Physio. Basketball. A diet rich in vegetables and light on cheesy chips.”

I groaned and continued the uphill struggle. “There goes any future for us.”

Hunter laughed.

At the top of the hill, Hunter veered down a narrow adjacent path fringed with wild roses. A posted wooden sign, half covered by tree branches, read Lover’s Loop.

“Lover’s Loop?” I followed him, gulping in sweetly-perfumed air. “What is this article supposed to look like, exactly?”

“Like this.” Hunter pointed at an antique wooden gazebo. Octagonal, with a turret-shaped, shingle-layered roof. Pretty, in the wild garden setting. Pretty romantic.

Hunter rolled up a ramp into the gazebo. He swiveled his chair toward me and opened his arms wide. “Built in the eighteen-eighties.” He gestured to the ramp. “Modified in the nineties.” He grinned. “A well-kept secret hideout. Usually used by lovers.”

So the bushes were probably littered with used condoms? I modified pretty romantic to pretty gross.

I cautiously joined him inside, breezes buffered by a white trellis decorated with mini padlocks.

Hunter uncapped his camera lens and snapped pictures. In the shadows of the gazebo, light from the screen hit his gently smiling face.

I leaned against a support beam. “If it’s a well-kept secret, why would you want Scribe readers knowing about it?”

Hunter lifted his camera and took a shot of me. He drew the camera down, holding it against his chest, gaze meeting mine. “They’re planning to tear it down. Replace all this with modern benches and pansy beds. A small group is lobbying against the change. You could encourage students to help save it.”

I withdrew my phone, opened my email, and jotted notes. “Why is it important to you?” I asked, glancing toward the trellis. “Is one of these forever-in-love padlocks yours?”

“My parents’.”

I stopped typing. “Really?”

“Not a padlock. Their initials are scratched on the beam behind me.” Hunter slid his camera into the bag slung over his chair, and rolled backwards—

The sickening knack of splitting wood cut through the air, and Hunter’s chair dropped sharply to one side.

I lunged across the gazebo, dropping my phone, and desperately clutched the arm of the wheelchair before it plunged any deeper into the rotting wood.

My muscles strained to hold the heavy weight. “Bet those pansy beds are looking good about now.”

Hunter barked a laugh between uncharacteristic curses. “Could you come behind me and pull toward your left?”

I rounded the chair and pulled. Heaved. Vowed to climb more hills and visit the gym.

The wheelchair finally dislodged and found purchase on the slat floors. At the edge of the concrete ramp, I let go of his chair, palmed my knees, and caught my ragged breath.

Hunter set his lips in a grim line. “I hope this doesn’t change your mind about saving the gazebo.”

“Jesus. It nearly eats you and you still want to save it?”

I felt his eyes shift from the wreck inside to me. The hairs on my nape prickled.

“It needs tender loving care,” he said. “Strengthen the foundation and I’m certain its beauty will prevail.” I attempted eye contact but he fixed his gaze on the gazebo floor. “What do you think?”

“I think,” I said, stealing inside, veins skipping with shivers, “I lost my phone.”

Cautiously, I lowered myself to the cool grainy slats and peered into the hole. Dark forms lurked in darker shadows. “Great. I can’t see my phone without my phone.”

“Here. Use mine.”

Hunter shook his phone and bright light blasted out.

I crawled back for it, and Hunter set it in my upturned palm, curling my fingers around it. His fingers so much warmer than my own. I stared at my hand for a ridiculously long beat.

“Jill?”

I threw myself toward the hole. Perhaps aimed to dive into it.

I angled Hunter’s light. Shadows—and spiders—leaped aside, revealing debris and my phone face down on an old rectangular tin.

I pulled both out and rolled onto my back. A sticky glob of dust dropped onto my face and I spluttered as I sat upright.

Hunter raised a brow. I held out his phone, careful to pinch it so our skin wouldn’t brush.

“Yeah, I need you to put your number in there before you give it back to me.”

My gaze—trained on the phone—jerked to his. “My number? What for?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Hunter gripped his phone and unlocked the screen. “Put it in my address book.”

With a weird hop in my stomach, I plugged in my details and handed back his phone. He thumbed the screen, frowned, and peered over it at me. “Okay.”

I quickly returned to inspecting the tin box, wiping through a greasy layer of dust.

“What did you find?” he asked.

“A vintage tin box.”

“What’s inside it?”

“Does it matter? This is an Archie tin.”

Hunter plucked the tin out of my grip with a smirk. “A scratched-up Archie tin.” He shook it gently and something shifted inside. His eyes danced. “I’m definitely curious what’s inside.”

I pushed to my feet, and he handed the tin back to me, not immediately releasing his hold. “If you want to show me.”