Page 26 of Because I Liked A Boy (Because I Liked A Boy Trilogy #1)

Morning light spilled through the blinds, soft and golden, cutting across the room in thin stripes.

The first thing I noticed was warmth—the heavy weight of Hunter’s arm slung around my waist, the steady heat of his chest pressed against my back, the rhythm of his breath fanning over the curve of my neck.

For a moment, I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just listened to him. His chest rising and falling like nothing in the world could touch us.

It felt… safe.

Careful not to wake him, I slid out from under his arm. He stirred but didn’t wake, only rolled onto his stomach, face buried in the pillow. His hair was a wild mess, his tattoos stretched over his bare back, and my chest ached at the sight of him so unguarded.

On the floor, his T-shirt lay tangled with my cami. I bent, picked it up, and slipped it over my head. It swallowed me whole, soft cotton falling mid-thigh, smelling like cedarwood and soap and him. My panties peeked out beneath the hem, but I didn’t care.

Barefoot, I padded quietly down the stairs. The floor was cool under my soles, the house silent except for the faint hum of the fridge and the creak of the wood beneath me.

The kitchen was small, stripped back like the rest of the house—clean counters, half-empty fridge, nothing personal.

But I found the coffee pot tucked in the corner and set it brewing.

The scent filled the quiet, rich and warm, curling through the air until it felt like the house finally had a heartbeat.

I leaned against the counter, clutching the first mug between both hands. The steam fogged my lashes. My lips burned when I sipped too fast, and I laughed softly to myself.

Domestic. Mundane. Perfect.

For the first time in years, I let myself believe this could be mine. Mornings like this. His shirt on my skin. Coffee in his kitchen. A man upstairs who had held me through storms, kissed me like I was the only thing in the world, made me laugh until my cheeks hurt.

I padded into the living room, mug warm in my hands, the silence no longer suffocating but calm. Hopeful.

My fingers brushed the couch back, then trailed over the spines of books lined in perfect order, over the stack of neatly squared papers on the table. Everything was neat. Controlled. Hunter. My smile softened. “Figures,” I whispered to myself.

I wanted this. God help me, I wanted it.

My eyes landed on the leather-bound notebook on the coffee table, half-tucked under a neat pile of papers. I reached for it without thinking, my laugh still lingering.

The second I saw my name, Isabella Ashbourne, the laugh died in my throat.

My grip faltered. The folder slid from the pile.

I bent automatically, hands trembling as I picked it up.

At first, it looked ordinary—typed pages clipped neatly together. But when I flipped one open, the words slammed into me so hard my knees almost buckled.

My name. Stamped across the top in bold. Over and over again. And underneath—lines. Notes. Observations.

The Maple Bean – 10:04 a.m.

Subject ordered vanilla latte. Sat by the window. Spoke to Ruby.

Later joined by Theo. Me present.

My stomach lurched. I read it again. And again. My fingers tightened so hard the paper crumpled. I flipped the page.

The Ember – Friday night.

Subject accompanied by Ruby. Theo later joined. Me joined as well.

Progress noted. Interaction escalating.

I turned another. And another.

Everywhere I’d been. Everything I’d thought was mine. Coldly catalogued, stripped down to times, dates, people, drinks.

Even the lake.

Walk by the lake – late evening. Subject quiet. Spoke briefly. Trust developing.

Each detail tore a new hole in me. And always—Me.

Not “observer.” Not “contact.” Not initials. Just me. Like every move, every conversation, every private moment had been his job to witness, record, report.

My breath came faster. My chest squeezed tight. And then, halfway down the page—

Contact deepening. Subject trusts me.

The room tilted. My knees gave out, and I staggered back onto the couch, clutching the file like it might bite me.

My vision blurred. Tears pricked hot and fast, slipping free before I could blink them back. My lungs burned, dragging in shallow breaths that barely reached my chest.

It wasn’t chance. It wasn’t fate. It was him.

Hunter.

He’d been sent for me.

The sound that left me was half-sob, half-choke. I pressed a hand to my mouth, folder trembling against my chest like I could smother the truth. My tears dripped onto the page, blurring ink, but nothing could erase the words.

A floorboard creaked behind me.

“Baby?” His voice carried down the hall, casual at first, warm from sleep. “What was that noise?”

My heart stopped.

Slowly—like every bone in my body had turned to stone—I turned. The folder dangled in my hands, pages trembling as badly as my fingers.

Hunter stopped in the doorway.

His eyes landed on the file. He froze. His face drained, lips parting, green eyes widening just a fraction before his jaw clenched tight.

“Fuck.”

The sound of that single word broke me worse than anything I’d read.

“You son of a bitch.” The words ripped out of me, raw, ragged. Tears didn’t soften them—they sharpened them into blades. “You’ve been lying to me this whole fucking time?”

“Isabella—” His voice was rough, desperate.

“Don’t you dare say my name like it means something to you.” My chest heaved, my grip on the folder so tight the edges cut into my palms. “Don’t you dare pretend any of this meant something to you.”

He stepped forward, hands slightly raised like I was something fragile. “I can explain—”

“Explain?” My laugh was jagged, broken, spilling into a sob.

“What exactly? That you’ve been tracking me like prey?

That every time I thought I was choosing for myself—you were there, taking notes, reporting back?

” I shook the folder so hard the pages slapped together.

“That my father—my fucking father—sent you to spy on me?”

His silence was the only answer I needed.

My tears turned to fire, streaking hot down my cheeks. “Jesus Christ, Hunter.”

“I didn’t—” He dragged a hand over his face, voice cracking. “It started that way, yeah. But it’s not like that anymore. You changed everything.”

“Don’t you dare feed me that line.” My rage tore my throat raw. “How long did you practice that one? Between writing down every latte I ordered at The Maple Bean?”

His chest heaved, eyes desperate. “Damn it, Isabella, I never wanted you to find out like this.”

“Oh, isn’t that sweet?” I snapped. “I was just supposed to keep living in your perfect little lie? Believing every filthy word out of your mouth while you ran back to my father like his obedient fucking lapdog?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what the fuck it’s like!” I screamed, my voice splintering. “Tell me how it feels to fuck me while you hand my life over to the man I ran from!”

He flinched like I’d slapped him. His hands flexed. “I didn’t fake us. Not once. Not a single fucking second with you was fake.”

The words cut too deep. For half a second, I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to. But the folder in my hands weighed heavier than anything I’d ever carried.

“You don’t get to say that.” My whisper cracked, splintered. “Not when every second of us was built on a lie.” Tears blurred everything. My voice shook but I forced it out anyway: “I trusted you.”

His face twisted, wrecked.

“I loved you.” My voice splintered, the truth tearing out of me like glass. “And you ruined it.”

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stand to look at him another second.

I turned and stormed up the stairs, folder still clutched tight, tears blinding me. Behind me, his footsteps pounded after mine.

“Isabella—please—fuck—just listen to me!”

I didn’t. I tore through the bedroom, yanking my shorts and cami from the floor, pulling them on with shaking hands. His shirt hit the ground, crumpled like it burned me.

“It was a job!” His voice cracked, raw, frantic. “That’s all it was at the start. Just money I needed it they offered me more than I’d ever seen—”

“A job?” I spun on him, fury and grief clawing out of me. “That’s all I was to you? A pay check?”

“No!” His fists curled at his sides. “It stopped being about that the second I met you.”

“Bullshit!” My laugh was hollow, jagged. “You were reporting back while you kissed me, while you fucked me, while you made me believe I finally had something real!”

His eyes burned. “It was real. Every second with you was me. Not your father. Not the job. Me.”

“Nothing about this was real.” My voice broke as I shoved past him, bag clutched to my side.

Then, on instinct, my eyes snagged on the stupid stuffed bunny sitting in the chair.

My throat seized. Before I could think better of it, I snatched it up, hugging the ridiculous thing to my chest like a shield.

If nothing else, I needed one piece of him left.

“Princess—” His voice cracked, shattering.

“Don’t.” My whisper shook. Tears streamed hot down my cheeks. “Don’t call me that. Don’t you dare use that name like I’m still yours.”

I stormed down the stairs, the bunny clutched tight in one arm, the folder in the other. The coffee table shook as I slammed the file down, pages spilling everywhere.

Proof. Every word of it.

At the door, my hand trembled on the handle.

“Isabella.” His voice was broken now, guttural.

I froze. Just for a heartbeat.

Then I ripped the door open so hard it cracked against the wall. “Fuck you, Hunter,” I whispered, voice shattered.

And I slammed it behind me.

Cool night air hit my damp skin, sharp with the scent of asphalt and rain. My legs stumbled down the steps, phone clutched in my shaking hand, the bunny still in my arms. Ruby’s name lit the screen.

She answered on the first ring, her voice groggy, then alarmed. “Belle? What’s wrong? Where are you?”

“Can you come get me?” My voice cracked, choked. “Please. Just… come get me.”

Her tone sharpened instantly. “Text me the address. I’m on my way.”

The call ended. My knees buckled. I sank onto the curb, hugging the bunny tight against me, arms wrapped around both it and myself like I could hold in all the pieces that were breaking. The night pressed down heavy, every inhale scraping my throat raw.

The folder. His words. His face.

All of it spun behind my eyes, looping like a nightmare I couldn’t wake from.

And the cruellest part? Even now, even knowing what I knew I could still smell him on me. Cedarwood. Soap. Hunter.

The ache of it nearly broke me in half.

Headlights flashed down the street, but it wasn’t Ruby yet just some stranger slowing for a moment to take in the girl sitting on the curb in nothing but shorts, a stolen T-shirt, heartbreak, and a ridiculous stuffed bunny. I turned my face away, shame searing hot through the tears.

My phone buzzed. Ruby.

On my way. Five minutes. Hold on, Belle.

The words blurred as fresh tears stung my eyes. Five minutes had never felt so long. My chest heaved, sobs tearing loose despite every effort to hold them back.

When Ruby’s car finally rolled into view, relief hit so hard my body sagged. Somehow, I stood, clutching the bunny tighter, and stumbled toward the open passenger door.

Ruby’s face was pale with worry, her voice sharp. “Belle get in.”

I slid into the seat, the bunny crushed in my lap, tears still hot on my cheeks. As the door slammed shut, the weight of it all sank deep in my bones.

Hunter Hayes had broken me.

And this time, I wasn’t sure I’d survive putting the pieces back together.