Page 4 of Because I Liked A Boy (Because I Liked A Boy Trilogy #1)

Six Months Of Silence

Six Months Later

Six months. That’s how long I’ve been in Maplewood. Longer than I ever planned. I told myself I’d stay until the lease was up. Six months of hiding, breathing, surviving. Then I’d disappear again. But I’m still here.

The flat on Maple Street is quiet, but it’s mine.

Page Turners has become more than a job, more than shelves and dust and paper.

It’s the only place I can think straight.

Ruby decided we were friends somewhere along the way, and she’s impossible to say no to.

She keeps me fed on caffeine and sarcasm, and sometimes that’s enough.

And then there’s Hunter Hayes.

The whole town calls him trouble. Maplewood’s playboy. Always grinning. Always flirting. Always moving on before anyone gets too close. I thought I’d be the same—another girl he teased for a week or two before he got bored.

But he didn’t.

Six months later, he’s still here. Still throwing that smirk my way. Still showing up every Monday morning to walk me to work like it’s a routine we never agreed to. Still brushing too close when he doesn’t need to, saying my name like it’s something sharp and sweet on his tongue.

I tell myself I don’t care. That I roll my eyes. That it doesn’t mean anything. But I haven’t told him to stop. And for someone like Hunter Hayes, that feels dangerous.

The Maple Bean hums with its usual morning rhythm when I push through the door.

The air is thick with coffee and cinnamon, warm enough to chase the bite of autumn outside.

Wooden tables are scattered with open laptops and half-read newspapers, the hiss of the espresso machine blending with the low thrum of conversation.

Ruby’s behind the counter, hair piled into a messy bun that defies gravity, curls springing loose around her face. She spots me instantly, grin spreading like she’s been waiting all morning.

“There’s my Belle.”

The nickname still lands like a pebble in my chest, small and sharp, impossible to ignore. Nathan’s voice. Penelope’s. I force a smile anyway and slide onto a stool at the counter.

“You’re late,” Ruby teases, already reaching for the vanilla syrup.

“I’m right on time.”

“In Maplewood, this is late.” She smirks, steam curling between us. “I was about to send out a search party. Thought maybe you finally ran off with a cowboy.”

I snort. “Please. I’d rather die in my sleep.”

Ruby arches a brow. “Or maybe you were delayed because you were… distracted.”

“Distracted?”

“You know. By someone.” Her tone is light, but her eyes glint with mischief.

I roll mine. “You seriously need a new hobby.”

“This is my hobby.” She slides the latte toward me, vanilla and espresso curling into the air. “Watching you two go at it every morning? Better than Netflix.”

I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat soak into my palms. “Not everything’s about him.”

“Sure, Belle.” Ruby grins. “Whatever you say.”

The bell over the door jingles. Ruby’s grin sharpens. “And speaking of…”

Hunter strolls in, sunlight catching in his hair like he’s in a damn commercial. He looks like he belongs in one of those small-town dramas—the kind where guys like him are both the problem and the plot twist. Black T-shirt, worn jeans, lazy confidence in every stride.

His smirk locks on me the second he reaches the counter. “Morning, Princess.”

“Fuckboy.”

Ruby nearly chokes on her laughter.

Hunter’s smirk deepens. “Miss me yesterday?”

“Like my ex.” I sip slowly, savouring the flicker in his eyes.

“Harsh.” He leans in, close enough for the faint scent of engine oil and soap to sneak into my space. “Good thing I’m harder to forget than your ex.”

His shirt rides up just enough to flash a strip of skin. Strategic. Shameless. I wasn’t paying attention. Not. At. All.

Ruby slides his coffee across the counter without him asking. “One day, you two are going to combust right here, and I hope I’m on shift when it happens.”

“Keep dreaming,” I mutter.

Hunter chuckles low, the sound crawling down my spine. “Oh, Princess… I already am.”

The bell jingles again.

Theo strolls in, all easy strides and Sunday-morning casual—white T-shirt, worn jeans, sneakers scuffed from too many miles. His hair is messy in that careless way that still works, brown eyes warm and sharp all at once.

He’s been around since the first day I met Hunter—his best friend, co-owner of the garage two streets over. Quieter than Hunter, but no less dangerous when he decides to lean into it. If Hunter is fire, Theo is smoke. Slower to spread, but just as consuming once you notice.

“Am I interrupting something?” His voice drips with smug amusement.

“No,” I say flatly.

“Yes,” Hunter says at the same time.

Theo grins but doesn’t press. Instead, he turns to Ruby. “Morning, Rubes. Caramel latte. Extra caramel. You know how I like it.”

A flush rises in Ruby’s cheeks, and she spins toward the machine too quickly. “Yeah, I remember,” she says, aiming for casual.

Theo leans on the counter, watching her with deliberate ease. “You never forget my order.”

Ruby smirks without looking at him. “Some customers are worth remembering.”

Hunter cuts in, dry as dust. “Some customers are also unbearable.”

“Present company included?” Theo shoots back, not bothering to glance his way.

Ruby slides his cup toward him, fingers brushing his just long enough to make her blink faster. “Careful. Don’t burn yourself.”

“I’ll take my chances.” Theo sips slow, eyes finally shifting to me. “You two look like you’re having a moment.”

“Not even close,” I say.

Hunter tilts his head, smirk edging into a challenge. “Don’t sound so disappointed, Princess.”

Ruby leans forward, chin in her palm, grinning like this is the best entertainment she’s had all week.

I drain the last of my cup and grab my bag. “On that note, I’ve got work.”

Hunter straightens instantly. “Perfect. I’m heading that way.”

I narrow my eyes. “Pretty sure you’re not.”

“Book store’s two streets from the shop,” he says, already falling into step before I’ve made it to the door. “And it’s Monday.”

Theo raises his cup in a lazy salute. “Try not to kill each other before lunch.”

“Can’t make promises,” Hunter tosses back, holding the door like a gentleman—if gentlemen wore smirks that looked like trouble.

Outside, the air is cool enough to cut through the warmth of the coffee shop. Hunter falls into step beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, his shoulder brushing mine a fraction too long before he slides his hand back into his pocket. Not an accident. Nothing with him ever is.

This is his thing now. Every Monday, like clockwork. I never asked him to. Never encouraged him. But he shows up anyway, like a bad habit I can’t shake.

“Tell me you at least noticed I wasn’t here yesterday,” he says, voice pitched low and warm, curling into my thoughts like smoke.

I keep my eyes ahead. “Tell me you at least noticed I didn’t care.”

His smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You cared.”

“I didn’t.”

“Mmh.” He lets it hang there, brushing against my arm again, deliberate as ever.

“You always this grumpy in the morning?” he asks.

“Only when I’m being stalked to work.”

“Walking a gorgeous woman to her job isn’t stalking. It’s good manners.”

“Calling yourself good is a stretch.”

He laughs under his breath, leaning closer. “But calling me gorgeous would be accurate?”

I shoot him a side-eye. “Keep fishing, fuckboy. Maybe you’ll catch something.”

“Already have,” he says, gaze dropping to my mouth before dragging back up. “But I’m a patient man.”

Heat curls low in my stomach before I can stop it. “Patient isn’t the word I’d use for you.”

“What word would you use?” His voice is softer now, teasing but edged with something that sends a shiver down my spine.

“Persistent. Annoying. Occasionally useful if I need something heavy lifted.”

His grin widens, sharp and victorious. “And here I thought you liked me for my charm.”

We round the last corner, and Page Turners comes into view—green paint peeling from its trim, windows crowded with books leaning against one another like tired old friends. The sign above the door is faded but steady: PAGE TURNERS — EST. 1968.

Hunter reaches the door first, pulling it open without breaking eye contact. “Guess this is where I leave you, Princess.”

“Guess so.”

“Try not to think about me too much.”

I step past him, shoulder brushing his chest. “I won’t.”

His smirk deepens. “You will.”

The bell jingles as the door closes behind me, but his scent—soap, engine oil, and trouble—lingers, curling stubbornly into the air.

The shop feels like stepping into another world. Dust motes spin in the slanted light from high windows. The air is thick with paper and cedar polish, every shelf groaning under the weight of too many stories.

Behind the counter, Mr. Whitaker is hunched over the register, glasses perched low on his nose as he scribbles in a ledger. His silver hair sticks out at odd angles, blue eyes sharp when they finally lift to me.

“Morning, Isabella,” he says, voice rough from years of cigars he swears he’s quit.

“Morning.” I drop my bag behind the counter and loop the apron over my head, the cotton straps tugging my hair loose from its clip.

His gaze sweeps me once, like he’s checking for cracks. He’s been doing that since the day he hired me.

“There’s a shipment in the back,” he says with a nod toward the storeroom. “Romance, mostly. Get them out on the front table before lunch.”

I smirk faintly. “You only give me the romance boxes because you know I’ll actually alphabetise them.”

He grunts, which is as close to a laugh as he gets. “And because you don’t complain.”

“Yet,” I mutter, heading for the back.

When I come out front again, Mr. Whitaker is watching me over the rim of his mug, one brow raised.

“That grease monkey walked you in again?”

“He works two streets over.”

He takes a slow sip, unimpressed. “So do a dozen other people, and none of them play escort every Monday.”

“It’s… convenient,” I say, stacking the fresh romances on the table.

“Uh-huh.” The corner of his mouth quirks, just enough to make me want to throw something at him.

I ignore it, focusing on the display, but the phantom warmth of Hunter’s hand still lingers against mine, the echo of his smirk shadowing me long after he’s gone.

Trouble. Wrapped in a smirk. And for reasons I refuse to examine too closely, I already know I’m going to let him walk me again next Monday.