19. Hunter

"Week three, done and dusted." Levi brushes his hands together as he strides toward me.

And stride, he does. He graduated to a walking boot this week. There's a literal spring in his step now that he's ditched the crutches.

I drink him in as he approaches.

He's dressed in athletic shorts and an oversized cutout T-shirt that shows off every ripple of muscle along his arms, upper back, and obliques.

He's covered in a sheen of sweat built up during his PT session. He's pushing himself, that's for sure.

"You look good, Duke." I mark my place in my American history textbook, then snap it shut and stash it in my bag. "Ready to go?"

I've been driving Levi to and from physical therapy Monday through Thursday for the last three weeks. Greedy covers Fridays, since he doesn't have class and the South Chapel Sharks football team has officially transitioned to their offseason training schedule.

The routine works well. Levi and I sip our morning beverages—tea or matcha for me, creamer with a splash of coffee for him. Sometimes we chat on our way to the sports rehab facility, but mostly, we ride in comfortable silence.

I get a guaranteed two hours of studying done while he goes through his exercises and meets with the trainers assisting with his rehabilitation. On the days he has an evaluation or an extra sports massage scheduled, it's closer to three hours.

Dr. Ferguson hooked him up. The rehab center is across the parking lot from the hospital. It's a state-of-the-art facility, with every bell and whistle imaginable. Levi is receiving top-tier care. I haven't asked, but knowing Greedy's dad the way I do, it's likely Levi won't pay a cent for the physical therapy and extra services he's receiving.

By the time I reach him, he's collected his belongings, too.

Side by side, we head for the exit, but as we get close, he ups his pace so he can hold the door for me.

Always the southern gentleman.

Before I have a chance to walk through the open door, someone calls out across the entryway.

"Levi Moore!"

A man in his late fifties or early sixties comes to stop before us. He's stout, with a trimmed beard and mustache that are mostly white. One arm is wrapped in a sling, but he extends the other out to Levi.

Levi shoots me an apologetic half smile, then steps forward and shakes the man's hand.

"It's great to see you, son," the man offers warmly.

Levi's posture is stiff, but his tone is polite when he responds. "It's nice to see you, too, Pastor Tomlin."

I instinctively step forward, positioning myself at my friend's side.

His sudden change in demeanor and the formality with which he addressed this man put me on edge.

I place my palm on the small of his back, hoping to imbue a little comfort. Instead, he jolts at the contact.

Before I can remove my hand, he relaxes a fraction and gives me a small smile, so I leave it in place. I just want him to know I'm here.

"Your mother told me about your accident," the pastor says, nodding toward the walking boot on Levi's foot.

Accident?

I drop my arm to my side and open my mouth to correct him, but Levi catches my hand in his and squeezes. Either it's not worth correcting, or the pastor isn't one to take correction.

Okay, then.

"Are you, uh, are you here for rehab?" Levi asks, his voice laced with discomfort.

"Shoulder replacement," the pastor confirms, chuckling.

He's yet to introduce himself or even acknowledge my presence. Instead, he's kept his full attention fixed on Levi, as if I'm invisible.

"May says I use my hands too much when I'm preaching." The laugh that escapes him is self-deprecating, but it fades quickly, and his faux-jovial expression transforms into one much more stern. "Speaking of… your mother says you've been home for almost a month now, son. We can expect you to join us this Sunday, I assume?" He scans Levi from head to toe and gives his boot a pointed look. "It appears you're getting around just fine now—"

"Oh…" I can't help but interject. Being blatantly ignored will do that to a girl. "This Sunday?"

For the first time, the man looks down at me. His eyes make a sweeping assessment. To his credit, he doesn't leer like some men do, but his gaze snags on our joined hands, and he lifts a brow, unimpressed.

Rather than speak directly to the good pastor, I tip my chin up to Levi and level him with the sweetest smile I can muster. "You promised you'd be my DD this weekend, Duke."

Levi's eyes widen in surprise, but he plays along. "Uh, yeah. Sorry, Pastor T. I'm busy this Sunday."

"Next week, then," the man insists, straightening and puffing out his chest.

His tone brooks no argument.

Personally? I'm not a fan.

The idea of this man, or anyone, for that matter, trying to control or manipulate someone I care about makes my hackles rise. I suffered through years of manipulation shrouded in the guise of love. I don't tolerate that shit anymore. Not for myself, or for my friends.

"Oh, shucks," I say, going for earnest, and run the fingertips of my free hand across Levi's chest.

He's so warm and solid under my touch. And I swear he shudders, just slightly, when my nails scrape his pecs.

"I signed you up to DD next weekend, too, babe."

Levi squeezes my hand in warning.

Too far?

It's probably too far.

I bite back a grin and school my expression.

"Young lady. Perhaps it's not my place," the Pastor starts, as if that justifies what'll come out of his mouth next, "but what sort of extracurriculars are you involved in that require a regular designated driver on Sunday mornings?"

I offer my most saccharine smile. "Smut brunch, sir. It's a spicy romance book club. Bottomless mimosas and romance novels are necessities." I giggle. "They're a match made in heaven." I place extra emphasis on the last word.

Levi coughs uncontrollably, his shoulders shaking with the force of it.

Yep. Definitely too far.

But I'm not one to back down from a challenge, so I double down.

"Levi here, my boyfriend," I emphasize, "loves supporting smut brunch. Isn't that right, Dukey?"

As soon as I say it out loud, I hear it.

But the damage has already been done.

I fight to keep from cringing and bat my lashes at him instead.

Dukeyit is.

"Yeah, Daisycakes," Levi confirms, still gasping for air after his coughing fit. "It's cute when you get together with your friends. I'm happy to be your DD." He drops my hand but wraps his arm around my shoulder.

The pastor eyes us warily. Probably working on a retort.

I've already come this far, and I don't give a shit what anyone thinks about me—not anymore—so I triple down, this time going for shock factor.

"Dukey." I giggle.

My giggle evolves into a snort, because I'm apparently twelve.

I do my best to recall whether the dog poop kind of "dookie" is spelled with a y or an ie, then give up and go in for the kill.

"It's not just cute. It's educational. You know you love it when I get drunk at brunch, then come home ready to jump your bones so we can try all the kinky things I've been reading about."

Now it's the good pastor's turn to cough uncontrollably. Wincing, he grasps his upper arm, probably in a bit of pain if he just had a shoulder replacement. Oops.

Levi squeezes my hand tighter and takes a step toward the exit, pulling me with him. As he does, I can't help but drive the point home.

"Plus, it's so much better now that we're living together. We don't even have to use FaceTime to fornicate. I can have my way with you whenever I want," I muse, trailing one nail along Levi's clean-shaven jaw as I bat my lashes at him.

"Simmer down, Daisy. You've made your point," Levi murmurs, guiding me through the door by the elbow. "And please don't ever say fornicate to me again."

"Good to see you again, Pastor Tomlin," he calls over his shoulder. "Take care."

Always the southern gentleman.