Page 36 of The Boy Next Door

Since I brought home my art project with polymer clay, I'm tempted to redo the piece even if French won't give me any extra credit. However, even seeing the painting of red water lilies is painful. All I'd think about the whole time is…

"Hunter," I say after answering a knock at the door.

Wearing a black leather jacket, his arms crossed, he appears grumpy. Before wondering if I look okay, before he changes his mind, I pull him inside.

"Is this your bright idea? Did you have your mom talk to me?" he asks shortly.

"What?"

"Apparently she needs a new lawnmower and asked if I'm interested."

"No, I didn't even know. Well, I knew she hated the current guy. She's impossible to please."

"Tell her I'm not interested. Bye." He turns to leave.

"Wait, that's really all?"

I could have told my mother he didn't want the job without talking to him. Hunter won't even do yardwork when the weather is nice, so this visit isn't strictly necessary. Yet he's here anyway.

"We're done," Hunter says. "Nothing else to discuss."

"That's not fair."

He shrugs. "That's life."

Yet he doesn’t leave. He’s too busy staring at the painting on the coffee table, glaring a hole through my red interpretation of water lilies. Oh god.

Finally, he tears his eyes from the red canvas and looks at a spot over my right shoulder. “It really seemed to make sense, you know? You leaving the note for me.”

"Hunter…"

"Sure, you had a crush on my brother since the moment you met him, but I thought, I told myself… it seemed to make sense. You weren’t painting Dylan the way you did me, that’s for sure."

"What? What are you talking about?" He can’t mean… there’s no way.

Hunter steps into my space, looking me in the eye. "I saw." Twisting his head, he glances at the painting on the table, then stares at me importantly and...

Oh my god.

"A-are you s-saying..." I whisper, shocked and totally exposed, face probably as red as the dark burgundy socks on my feet that I stare down at.

"That I saw the painting you left by the window of me naked? Yeah." He whistles. "I almost needed to hop back in the shower after seeing it."

No, no, no....

"Totally worth sharing a bathroom with Dylan while Mom redid mine. That's what the granite was for. You painted me like one of your French girls and then there's an orange glow from a bottle in the pond. It just kinda made sense, you know?"

A strangled noise escapes my throat. I step out of his way so he can leave, which will allow me to die of mortification in peace. Except he doesn't go anywhere.

"Don't think I've ever looked better," he says next.

"You always look good," I blurt out.

"Yeah, I know."

Yet somehow, I surpassed the incredibly high bar of making Hunter look his best.

After so long as neighbors, both Dylan and I are used to our rooms facing each other and we usually remember to close the blinds. Hunter forgot, so the guy emerging from the shower that fateful night I left my note wasn't Dylan. It was Hunter.

Hunter, who I hated at the time, but I couldn't deny that the California sun and years away treated him to an amazing body. Even totally crazy about Dylan, viewing a naked Hunter short-circuited my brain.

With a bruised ego from lacking passion and boldness, from failing as an artist, inspiration struck and I painted the stolen moment of Hunter emerging from the shower. Then I ran out to the pond and left my love note for Dylan, apparently so caught up in my feelings I failed to shut my curtains.

Hunter saw my painting of him, wet and gloriously sexy, and assumed the message in a bottle was for him.

Of course, I never dreamed any of this would happen. That Hunter and his heart would interest me even more than his body. Or that I was at risk of losing him forever...

It feels like he just pushed me into the pond, surprised and cold—no, the cold is because he left open the door he just exited from.

Rushing outside, I hurl the words at his quickly retreating back.

"Why are you running away? Are you scared?"

Of course, he's too proud and fearless to keep fleeing at my challenge. I quickly cross the distance between us.

"We can start over," I suggest, only a bit desperately. "Everything is in the open now. Give me another chance."

He stares down at the ground. "Not that simple."

"Why not?"

"You didn't like me," he says. "Not at the beginning."

"I like you now, so does it really matter—"

"Yes!" he insists, stubborn as ever.

From how he's so guarded, even the horrible way he loathes me, am I crazy to think he still has feelings for me? That's why he's afraid to spend too long in my presence, why he protects himself. My heart believes we can still make us work, but how, if he never gives me a chance?

"You didn't like me either," I remind. "You agreed to a date for some entertainment. You were bored, and I was trying to be bold like you."

"No, the way I couldn't." What? Despite his leather jacket, he suddenly appears small.

"It matters to me you didn't like me at the beginning because I.

.. I always talked myself out of saying anything.

" He huffs out a laugh as he remembers. "Nah, I'm a few years older.

Nah, I'm leaving soon. Nah, you're hopelessly gone on my brother, but. .."

There I go, headfirst into the pond again. No, the cold is from the weather, my teeth are chattering, yet I don't even care. The tips of his ears are pink, from either the temperature or his confession.

Hunter liked me before? Hunter had a crush on me? This isn't one of those movies where the main characters switch bodies. I'm Sam, the awkward shy kid. Hunter's the sexy, fearless older brother, he's...

"H-how?" I stammer. "What? You're Hunter. You're so…"

"No, not with this." He smiles sadly. "I've never felt bold when it came to you."