I step closer, getting into his space. “We need to get out of here.”
A rumble seems to escape his chest. “Yes, we do.”
After picking up a few messy pie tins, a volunteer scurries over and tells me she’ll finish.
“I don’t mind helping,” I say.
“We can do this. You already did so much,” she says as I grab a few more tins. Hunter picks up a couple too, and we toss them in the recycling bin.
“Happy to make it a little easier for you,” he says to the young woman.
“You’re very kind,” she says, and soon, we finish. I grab my T-shirt from the bench behind the dunk tank, but I don’t put it on. Why bother? It’s only polite to let Hunter enjoy the scenery as we walk.
I toss the shirt over my shoulder, and we head to the exit. Jason leans against the fence, chatting with Reese and Grant, a baseball player for the Cougars.
Reese catches Hunter’s eye and pulls him aside. As she talks to my Friday afternoon impromptu laundry date, Jason arches a brow at me, asking an unspoken question.
“What? Is something on my face?” I ask.
He cracks up, laughing as he shakes his head. “Have fun, Nate. Emphasis on fun,” Jason says, underlining that last word.
“Yes, Nate. You know the score,” Grant puts in since he knows I’m practicing a new play with men too.
“I sure as shit do. Fun, only fun. You know that’s my mantra,” I say, insisting.
“I do, and that’s why I’m reminding you . . . just fun,” Jason adds.
The dude has my best interests at heart, and I fucking love him for it. I’ve been burned before. Trusted the wrong guys—guys who just wanted a notch on their belt with an athlete. Dudes who only wanted to say they banged a pro baller. I didn’t always see that since I’m the kind of guy who falls fast and hard. It’s how I’m wired. I like connection, I like talking, and I really like company.
So far, I dig Hunter’s company.
That’s why this mini laundry date is a perfect chance for me to practice my new strategy.
“So, are you a professional pie hurler by day? Wait. Nope. I bet you’re a javelin-ist,” I say as we walk along the edge of the park in the Marina. “Or is it javelin-er? Hmm. Maybe jouster?”
“Wouldn’t that be a knight?” Hunter asks with an arch of a brow. How the hell does he have attractive eyebrows? But hey, it’s a thing, and Hunter has it going on.
“I knew it. You’re royalty,” I say, wagging a finger at the hottie. “Is this like one of those Disney flicks where the prince masquerades as a commoner and wanders through markets, getting to know his people?”
“Yes, my people of California.” Hunter gestures broadly to the packs of tourists and locals alike, tossing frisbees on the grass, walking dogs along the path, and surfing in waves in the distance.
“Can I call you Earl of . . . the Marina?”
“Please, my good man,” he scoffs. “I’m a duke.”
“Well, fancy that,” I say.
“And if that was your clever way of asking me what I do for a living, it worked,” Hunter says, flashing me a grin.
“Being clever?”
“Yes, very impressive segue into the work topic. I’m impressed.”
“Not gonna lie, Hunter. I kinda want to impress you,” I say, but shit. That is the kind of stuff I shouldn’t be doing or saying.
I scratch my jaw, give a casual shrug, and go full no big deal. “You know, for appearance's sake.”
A soft smile curves his lips, almost like he sees through me but gives me a pass. “I work at Webflix. I head up new show acquisition.”
My eyes pop. I slug him. “Well, then, you’re just the man I’ve wanted to talk to.”
Hunter gives me a skeptical look. “Do you have a show to pitch me?”
“No. I’ve got a big beef with you. That’s What She Said—I was not happy with the ending. They broke up. What the hell?”
“That was a rough one. Confession: I practically tore my hair out when I saw the screener.”
“Right? It’s so damn sad.”
“Dreadful. I truly wanted them together,” Hunter says.
“We have that in—” Nope. Stop, Nate. Don’t say in common. This isn't about us having things in common because there is no us.
Hunter sets a hand on my bare arm. “I bet we have other things in common,” he says, and it’s such a nice save, a kind moment that makes me want to kiss the fuck out of him ten times more than I did an hour ago.
“Maybe we do,” I say, keeping it casual. “But do you like football? American football, I mean.”
“Well . . .”
I stop in my tracks, thrust out a stop sign hand. “Don’t say it. Don’t break my heart.”
Hunter laughs, then whispers, “I like to watch the Super Bowl.”