6. Hunter

Playlist: Girls Like Girls | Hayley Kiyoko

I tried to be quiet when I made myself come last night. I tried to be quiet as images of Giovanna Quinn kissing her way up my thighs ran rampant in my mind.

I tried to be quiet when I came all over my favorite vibrator—a hot pink rabbit that’s lasted since college—biting the pillow in an attempt to muffle my moans.

I didn’t even need to use 4Play, my go-to audio erotica app. I tried a morning oral audio by Clementine, a best friend’s brother audio by Eros, even a rough enemies to lovers audio by Talia.

None of it was necessary—my imagination was better. So I tried to be quiet while I was overwhelmed with sensation, imagining Giovanna leaning over me, guiding me. I tried to be quiet because otherwise, that would make for an awkward morning: Me walking into the kitchen when Jo’s drinking her tea. Making eye contact as she smiles, that annoying as hell, knowing smile. She’d know somehow, I just know it.

Instead, what happens is somehow worse.

I’m awoken at 4:54 by a blaring fire alarm.

“Dagnabbit,” I mutter, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed and getting to my feet.

There’s a violent banging on my door moments later. “Hunter!” Jo hollers. “Get out!”

I try to shoo away the butterflies I get from the fact she doesn’t want me to burn to death.

I grab my robe off its hook on the closet door, pulling it on over my shoulders and tying a bow at my waist before opening the door.

Jo’s dark waves are piled messily on top of her head in the most enticing bun. She wears an oversized t-shirt with photos of Alice Cullen on it, and green plaid boxers that somehow don’t hide her curves.

I open my mouth to inquire about her garment of choice but before I can, she’s dissolved into hysterical laughter. The sound pops in the air like champagne bubbles, making me feel all warm and fuzzy.

I force myself to scowl and fold my arms across my chest, the movement causing Jo’s bubbles of laughter to stop. “What are you laughing at?”

“What aren’t I laughing at?” she asks, smirking.

“If I die a fiery death, I’ll sue.”

“Just…tell me where you got the robe, at least. You look like Martha May Whovier from The Grinch .”

“No need for flattery, Giovanna,” I say breezily, reaching out and wrapping my fingers around her wrist as I squeeze past her in the doorway. I try not to think of how close our faces are, how our bodies are pressed together, curves on curves and soft on soft. “If we survive this I’ll send you the link so we can be twins.”

Jo chuckles to herself the entire time it takes for us to exit the building.

I, heroically, do not slap her.

It’s still pretty chilly out, so while Jo shivers and thumbs through a well-worn paperback, I’m toasty, grinning to myself as I scroll through Taylor Swift thirst TikToks to distract myself from the alarms. It feels like the firefighters are taking forever in the building, and our neighbors are grumbling.

“Is that…Taylor Swift?” Jo asks, leaning over to look at my phone screen.

“Mmhmm.”

I watch out of the corner of my eye as Jo raises an eyebrow appraisingly. “Damn. I didn’t realize she was hot.”

“Aren’t you gay? She’s a damn babe.” Jo hums to herself, and looks back down at the book in her hand. “What are you reading?”

She lifts the book so I can see the cover better. “Beverly Jenkins.”

“It’s a romance?” I ask, even though it is obviously a romance. The cover model’s six pack puts Henry Cavill’s to shame.

“Mmhmm. Historical.”

“I like that Netflix show, Bridgerton, but I’m not a big reader.”

“But you don’t get the full experience without reading the books!”

I stare at her. “Wow, you’re one of those readers.”

“Oh god, that was obnoxious, wasn’t it?” Giovanna brings the book up to her face and hides in it.

It’s quite possibly the most endearing thing I’ve ever seen.

“Extremely obnoxious.” I fight back a smile. “Unbelievably gatekeepy gamer bro of you.”

She gasps dramatically and lowers the book just enough that I can see her eyes. “You take that back!”

I shrug. “Sorry, can’t. Mama didn’t raise no liar.”

She smiles at me, and I make a mental note to put another penny in my Giovanna Quinn’s Smiles Fund.

“I'm sorry, it’s just true. Bridgerton as a show is great, but reading it gives you a deeper experience of the story.”

“Hmm, interesting.” I mull it over.

“You can borrow any of my historical romances, as long as you’re not violent towards them. Blonde literacy is important to me.” She’s wearing a shit eating grin now and hell, I'm putting aside a whole dollar for that one.

I gasp theatrically and thwack her on the arm with the sleeve of my robe. “You are such a little shit, Giovanna Quinn!”

“Um, I’m taller than you,” she reminds me, like we’re not standing next to each other.

“Being a little shit has nothing to do with your height and you know it.”

She smirks at me and I swear, every small upturn of that pretty mouth of hers makes my heart pitter-patter.

Finally, around 6:15, we’re given the clear, and are able to return to the apartment. I’d normally go back to sleep, but being with Giovanna has me wired, and she has to get ready for work soon.

“How do you like your eggs?” Jo asks, getting a frying pan from a cabinet.

“Scrambled with cheese,” I tell her, hopping onto a bar stool. “And Sriracha.”

She gives me a look. “What do you think this is, Queenie’s?”

I gasp. “Oh my god, I forgot about Queenie’s.”

Queenie’s was the diner in Port Haven that Giovanna’s family, and my grandparents, frequented. That summer, we’d grab milkshakes and sweet potato fries late at night and sit giggling at the sea wall.

“The food is as delicious now as it was then.” She opens the refrigerator and pulls out a carton of eggs, a bag of shredded cheese, and a bottle of Sriracha. I bite my lip, fighting back a smile. “Their sweet potato fries have gotten even better, if you can believe it.”

“I can’t.” I watch her hands as she cracks the eggs, the motion of her wrist as she scrambles them. They’re such lovely, talented hands—

“You should come back to Port Haven with me some time. We could get root beer floats and sweet potato fries and—”

“Strawberry milkshakes,” I correct, my face reddening when she lifts her eyes to meet mine. “Sweet potato fries went best with strawberry milkshakes.”

“You remember that?” Her voice is quiet.

“I know it’s probably pathetic, but I think I remember everything about that summer.” I feel foolish admitting how much of her had stayed with me, shaped me.

Her smile is slow to build, a whisper in the dark. It’s my favorite Giovanna Quinn smile yet, and I want to call the whole mission quits after this, because a thousand of her other smiles don’t measure up to this one.

“I do too, for what it’s worth.” She looks back to the stovetop and sprinkles shredded cheese into the pan.

Little does she know it’s worth everything.