Page 5 of Because I Liked A Boy (Because I Liked A Boy Trilogy #1)

Across The Ocean

The first thing I hear is the faint drip of the kitchen tap. The second is the traffic two streets over, muted through the thin walls.

Sunlight filters through crooked blinds, painting pale stripes across the cream walls I’ve tried to make less bare.

Postcards and torn-out book pages are pinned above the couch, corners curling, tiny rebellions against emptiness.

The bookshelf I dragged home from Page Turners is already overflowing—romance classics stacked beside thrillers Nathan used to love, Ruby’s loud recommendations wedged between.

A framed photo sits face down on the top shelf, where I can’t accidentally look at it.

The desk in the corner is cluttered with receipts, half-empty mugs, and my battered laptop. It looks like I live here now. Not just existing, but living. Six months of coffee rings on the table, books left open on the arm of the sofa, and notes stuck to the fridge with cheap magnets.

It’s not much. But it’s mine.

The sharp trill of my phone cuts through the stillness.

I frown, reaching blindly across the night stand. My contacts list is short, and none of them would be texting me before I’ve had caffeine. The screen’s glow is harsh in the dim light. Unknown number.

Except I recognise it. My chest goes tight.

The message is short.

I know where you are.

Five words, heavy enough to anchor me in place. My stomach knots, cold and sharp, and my grip on the phone tightens until my knuckles ache.

For a moment I just sit there, the walls pressing in, the cheap air freshener clinging to the corners like it’s trying too hard to cover something rotten.

Then I’m up—hoodie, leggings, trainers—pulling my hair into a messy knot and slipping out the door before I’ve really decided where I’m going.

The morning air is cool, the street quiet except for the far-off hiss of tyres on wet tarmac. I cut through three blocks until the park opens up in front of me—patchy grass, a few benches, swings creaking lazily in the breeze.

I sink onto the nearest bench, my phone still clutched in my hand, those words still burning into the glass.

“Princess?”

I glance up. Hunter’s jogging toward me, shirt knotted around his waist, sweat glinting on the ink that winds down his arm. His chest is bare, tanned, distracting in a way that makes me want to roll my eyes at myself. He looks like trouble, and he knows it.

“You stalking me now?” I ask, sharper than I mean.

He smirks, dropping onto the bench beside me without hesitation. “If I was, I wouldn’t make it this obvious.”

“Comforting.”

His eyes sweep over me, lingering on the death grip I’ve got on my phone. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Uh-huh.” He leans back, stretching an arm casually across the bench. “You’re out here before eight. Without coffee. Which means you’re either sleepwalking… or something’s wrong.”

“Maybe I just wanted a walk.”

“In the park. At dawn. Without caffeine.” His tone is dry, but his eyes are sharp. “Sure, Isabella.”

The swings creak again. A jogger passes. My phone feels like lead in my hand.

Hunter finally pulls his shirt on, slow enough to be deliberate. He catches me watching and grins like he’s won.

“Enjoy the view?” he teases.

I arch a brow. “You wish.”

“Oh, I know.” His grin turns wicked, though there’s no malice in it. “Can’t blame you, though. I’d look too.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, voice dipping as his arm settles behind me, “you’re still here.”

He studies me for a beat, gaze flicking to the phone still clutched in my hand. “Guess I’ll just have to guess why you look like you want to throw that thing in the pond.”

“You’re terrible at guessing.”

“Not when it comes to you, Princess.” His voice softens, almost coaxing. “But I’m thinking… whatever it is, it’d look better over pancakes.”

My stomach growls, betraying me.

Hunter’s grin turns smug. “Knew it. You can’t say no to me and breakfast.”

“I can.”

“You won’t.”

I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth betrays me. “Bossy.”

“Efficient,” he corrects, rising and offering me his hand.

I hesitate, then slide my fingers into his. His palm is warm, rough from work, and he doesn’t let go once I’m standing. Instead, he keeps hold as we fall into step together, his long stride forcing me to match his pace.

“Diner’s this way,” he says, like it’s already decided.

We walk on, the quiet hum of the waking town around us. His thumb brushes once over the back of my hand, light as a test. I don’t pull away.

The Maple Diner sits on the corner like it’s been there forever—red paint peeling from the trim, chrome dulled with age, neon sign buzzing faintly in the morning haze.

The smell hits before the door does—coffee strong enough to wake the dead, bacon sizzling on the griddle, butter melting on toast. A jukebox hums an old country tune beneath the chatter.

Hunter pushes the door open for me. The little bell above it jingles, and every head swivels like gossip’s already halfway written.

Small towns. Nothing travels faster than whispers—except the chance to start them.

I’ve been here before, always solo, head down, in and out. Never with Hunter. And definitely not with him looking like he does now—shirt clinging to his chest, hair damp from his run, smirk dialled to trouble.

Which is probably why Millie Carson’s eyes lock on me the second we step inside.

She’s perched in her usual booth by the window with three of her friends, all glossy hair and manicured nails wrapped around matching lattes. They look like they’ve stepped out of a catalogue and into the business of making everyone else feel underdressed.

Ruby’s told me plenty about Millie. I’ve already had the misfortune of meeting her once—sauntering into Hunter’s garage like she owned the place. The way she’d looked at me then, syrupy smile sharpened into a knife, told me everything I needed to know.

Now her gaze flicks from him to me, sugar-laced poison dripping from her smile. “Morning, Hunter. Didn’t realise you were… entertaining company.”

Hunter doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s because my company’s worth keeping quiet about, Millie.” He doesn’t even glance her way. His hand presses lightly against the small of my back, steering me toward a booth like she’s nothing more than background noise.

The silence that follows us tastes like victory.

We slide into the booth, vinyl creaking beneath me. Hunter sprawls back like he owns the place, smirk cocked, but there’s something behind it—curiosity, maybe, or persistence in a different shape.

“So,” he says, stretching one arm along the backrest, “we’re playing a game.”

I arch a brow. “Do I look like I’m in the mood for games?”

“You’re always in the mood. You just don’t know it.” His grin widens. “Twenty questions. You answer, I answer. No lies.”

I stir my water with the straw. “And why, exactly, would I do that?”

“Because,” he leans forward, elbows braced on the table, “you don’t know me. Not really. And I don’t know you. If we’re going to be friends, that’s got to change.”

The word lands heavier than I expect. Friends. He says it casually, but not like a throwaway line. Like he means it.

“Friends,” I echo, sceptical.

“Relax, Princess.” His smirk returns, easier now. “Even playboys need someone to keep them in check.”

The waitress swings by with a notepad. Before I can speak, Hunter cuts in smoothly. “Pancakes and black coffee for me. Vanilla latte and pancakes for her.”

My glare could cut steel. “Ordering for me already?”

“Just efficient,” he says, all innocence. Then, softer, “Besides, friends know each other’s orders.”

The waitress hides a smile and walks away.

“Fine,” I mutter. “You start. But make it a real question.”

Hunter thinks for a beat, then asks, “If you could get on a plane tomorrow, anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

I blink. I was expecting smug, or something I could roll my eyes at. Not this. My throat tightens. “Anywhere far,” I say finally.

His gaze lingers, steady, like he sees through the answer. But all he does is nod. “Fair enough. Your turn.”

I tap my nails against the table. “What’s the one thing you actually like about Maplewood?”

His grin curves, slower this time. “The people. Some of them are worth sticking around for.”

The air shifts. I clear my throat, forcing my eyes down to the table. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you’re still sitting here,” he says, smirk curving softer now. Not just cocky—almost hopeful.

The waitress returns balancing plates, sliding a stack of pancakes in front of each of us. Syrup glistens under the lights, butter melting slow in the middle. She refills Hunter’s coffee without asking, then glances at me with a small smile. “Anything else?”

“I’m good, thank you,” I say quickly.

When she leaves, Hunter cuts straight into his pancakes, like this is just another Monday morning. “Your turn, Princess. Question.”

I fold my arms, leaning back. “What’s the last book you actually read?”

He smirks, chewing. “That’s easy. The repair manual for a ’67 Camaro.”

I narrow my eyes. “That doesn’t count.”

“Sure it does.” He grins wider, syrup shining on his fork. “Had words, had chapters, even had pictures.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Your problem, Isabella, is that you keep underestimating me. I read plenty.”

“Oh really?”

“Really.” His eyes catch mine. “I just prefer people. They’re harder to figure out. More interesting than paper and ink.”

The words land heavier than they should. I focus on my pancakes. “Then you’ll be disappointed here. I’m not interested in being figured out.”

Hunter tilts his head, studying me like I’ve just challenged him. Then his grin spreads again, softer this time. “Good thing I like a challenge.”

He points his fork at me. “What’s the first book that ever mattered to you?”

“Withering Heights. Found it in a secondhand shop when I was fifteen. The spine was cracked, pages falling out, but I read it cover to cover in a weekend. It was the first time I felt like someone had written a world I could crawl into and forget everything else.”

Hunter doesn’t tease. Doesn’t smirk. Just nods. “Makes sense. You strike me as someone who knows how to live inside her head.”

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s… comfortable.

Ruby once said Hunter was like fire—loud, bright, impossible to ignore.

But sitting here, watching him shove another forkful of pancakes into his mouth, syrup smeared at the corner of his grin, he feels almost…

human. Not trouble. Not the town’s playboy.

Just a boy who keeps showing up, even when I tell myself I don’t want him to.

He catches me looking and raises a brow. “What?”

“You’ve got syrup on your face.”

He wipes it with the back of his hand, leaving a worse smear, and grins like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

And I laugh. Really laugh.

Hunter freezes, fork halfway to his mouth, like he’s memorising the sound. Then his grin softens, warmer than I’ve ever seen it. “See? Friends. We’re getting there.”

When the plates are cleared and the coffee is gone, Hunter pushes up from the booth, stretching like he’s been here all morning. He holds the door open, smirk tugging at his mouth but his eyes steadier now. “Come on, Princess. I’ll walk you back.”

“I don’t need—”

“Friends walk each other home,” he interrupts, easy as anything. “Where to?”

I sigh. “Maple Street. Number fourteen.”

“Perfect. That’s on my way.”

“It is not.”

“Everything’s on my way when I feel like it.”

Before I can argue, my phone buzzes. Ruby’s name flashes, and I answer, already bracing myself.

“Girl. Why didn’t you tell me you and Hunter Hayes were a thing?”

My blood spikes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Hunter leans in, grin tugging. “What’s she saying?”

“That we’re a thing.”

He actually looks pleased. “Smart girl.”

“Don’t. This isn’t funny.”

Ruby’s laugh crackles down the line. “Don’t you hey me, Belle. You think you can walk into the diner with Hunter Hayes and not expect me to hear about it within ten minutes?”

“It wasn’t—”

“Oh, it was. Breakfast. Together. Him looking like sex in sneakers, you all flushed and starry-eyed—”

“I was not—”

“And don’t think I haven’t noticed the way he looks at you at the Bean. That man has been eye-fucking you over his black coffee for months. Better than Netflix.”

Heat scorches my neck. “Ruby—”

Hunter, no sense of self-preservation, leans closer and says loud enough for her to hear, “She did blush. Multiple times.”

I smack his arm, but Ruby gasps. “Is that him? Oh my god, Belle, put him on!”

“No!” But Hunter’s already plucked the phone from my hand.

“Hunter Hayes,” he says smoothly. “And for the record, she ate every bite of those pancakes.”

Ruby squeals so loud I wince. “I knew it. My ship has sailed. This is it. My OTP.”

Hunter chuckles and hands the phone back, smug as sin. “She’s all yours.”

Ruby is still laughing. “Belle, I am living for this. Please don’t ruin it by denying anything.”

“I hate both of you,” I mutter.

“Love you too, babe,” she sings before hanging up.

Hunter’s smirk widens as he shoves his hands into his pockets. “Your friends clearly have taste.”

“This is why I keep to myself,” I snap. “One breakfast, and now half this nosy town thinks I’m starring in some fairytale with you.”

“Can’t blame them.” His eyes glint with trouble. “We did look good together in that booth.”

“You think this is funny?”

“Fucking hilarious.” He leans closer, voice dipping just enough to make my pulse stumble. “And admit it—you like me better this way.”

By the time we reach my door on Maple Street, my cheeks are hot and my patience gone. I shove my keys into the lock and slam it behind me hard enough to rattle the frame.

His laugh follows me into the silence, warm and smug, curling through the cracks like smoke I can’t keep out.