IT'S LIKE SOMEONE dumps a bucket of ice water on my head. I turn to look at Hunter, but by the time I regain my balance, he's already gone, his back disappearing around the corner to the kitchen.

A second later, the door that leads to the backyard slams shut, the sound echoing in the silence.

I barely hear Eliza mutter, "What a drama queen," followed by a dull smack and a soft huff of pain. I don't know if she's talking about me, or if she's throwing her insult at Hunter. But it doesn't matter.

Cameron's face has sobered, his smirk fading to a concerned frown. "Peyton," he starts, his voice level.

I hold up a hand to cut him off, my eyes fixed on the doorway Hunter disappeared through. "Don't," I say firmly, shaking my head. "I'll be back."

I hear my friends, especially Addison, call after me as I briskly walk towards the doorway and round the corner into the kitchen. My surroundings are a blur around me as I focus on making my way to the other side and through the French doors.

Cameron's backyard is hardly a massive piece of land. In fact, I've been in bathrooms that take up more square footage than the small fenced-in space. But in this case, I'm thankful for the lack of space— as well as Hunter's lack of shoes— because it means I find him the moment I step through the patio doors.

"Hunter," I call out softly as I close the door behind me. The sound of my voice seems to surprise him as he looks up from where he's staring dourly at the tall wooden privacy fence that isolates the yard from the outside world.

His face doesn't light up when he sees me, the dim light above me giving off enough of a glow for me to see that his scowl reaches his hard blue eyes. "Go back inside, Peyton," he grumbles, turning away sharply.

Whereas my name sounded foreign when Cameron had said it a moment earlier, coming from Hunter's lips it sounds like an alien word to my ears. I'd only heard him say it a handful of times over the past few weeks, and I'd grown rather accustomed to responding whenever somebody said "Skirt" around me, however much it irritated me.

And now, not hearing that irritating pet name stabbed through my chest more than any insults he could have flung my way. 

The stone we stand on is cold through my socks, but I cross the patio towards him in spite of it.

Against my better judgement, I lay a hand on his bicep, my head tilting to the side even though he can hardly see me though the back of his head. "I'm sorry, Hunter," I say, in earnest. "I mean it."

"Whatever," he grumbles, shrugging so that my hand falls back to my side. "It's not like I care, anyways. It's not like you're actually my girlfriend."

I shiver— from the cold air or his chilly demeanor, I'm not sure. "Still. That wasn't cool of me to do."

He snorts a spiteful laugh. "Nope."

I can't see his face, but I can picture the way his jaw clenches at the word. A sign of restraint, knowingly holding himself back from saying more.

My eyes roll in irritation. "Will you turn around, please?" I snap. "I didn't come out here to talk to the back of your shirt."

Another harsh laugh. "What? Rather laugh at my face?"

"Do I sound like I'm laughing, dumbass?" I scoff. "Because most people call this talking." 

I watch as Hunter's shoulders rise and fall with his deep, even breaths. His hands clench at his sides and I know he's trying his best to stay calm and level headed. It's obvious. But why is he so worked up over this whole thing?

"You wanna talk?" he counters. "Then go ahead. Tell me what the hell that was in there."

"A mistake," I say automatically, the words coming easily for someone who's not used to apologizing for her actions. "Which you might believe better if you actually looked me in the eye when I said it."

I've barely gotten the words out before his hand slams into the fence in front of him. The smacking sound of his palm connecting with the hard wood resonates through the quiet city air and I flinch. He whirls, keeping two feet of space between us.

But his cold, hard gaze covers those two feet easily. "Dammit, Peyton!" he exclaims, his jaw clenching just as I'd thought it would. "Do you even know how the fuck it felt to watch you do that?"

"Shitty, probably," I say evenly.

I grew up in New York City, the daughter of a successful CEO. It takes more than a little bit of yelling to intimidate me, as awful as it sounds. In my experience, the bark is nothing compared to the bite— or the hair pulling, if we're being honest.

He shoves a hand roughly through his short hair, the result vaguely reminding me of how it had looked that fatefu time I woke up next to him. "You have no idea."

The upside to our lack of height difference? I don't have to crane my neck to look him in the eye as I take a step towards him, never breaking our eye contact. "So, tell me."

He breathes hard, his warm breath fanning my face in the small space between us. It hardly bothers me that it smells like tequila, I'm too focused the way his bright blue eyes are searching mine.

"Cam's an asshole," he states, revealing nothing new to me with his words. "He makes me want to punch him in the face on a regular basis. But right now? Right now, I want to walk back in there and beat the living shit out of him."

"Why?" I ask incredulously. "I'm the one who kissed him. Not the other way around."

This time it's both hands that rake through his hair as he rocks back on his heels, taking a step away from me. He lets out a frustrated noise, something between a groan and a growl. "Because, dammit, nothing makes sense when I'm around you!"

The corner of my lip pulls up into a scowl. "Excuse me?"

He shakes his head in exasperation. "You know, for a girl who's so brilliant most of the time, you can really be stubborn when it comes to what's right in front of you."

My lips purse and I angle my head to the side as I brush off his comment. "Well, let's just blame it on the million shots I had tonight so you can explain it to me without damaging my ego."

"See," he exclaims, jabbing a finger in my direction. "That's what I'm talking about. That— that snarky humor you use to just brush things off. You do it every time you see or hear something you can't possibly wrap your head around. It drives me insane!"

My jaw sets in defiance. "So enlighten me," I tell him, waving a hand for him to continue before I cross my arms over my chest. "What is it exactly that I'm brushing off?"

At this point, Hunter looks about ready to rip his hair out with his bare hands. Just when he looks like he's contemplating doing just that— or just explode from the frustration of it all— he blurts out, "That I'm crazy about you!"

His words throw me off balance. If there was any trace of alcohol-induced stupor left in me, it's flung out the window by Hunter's revelation. I'm speechless, and he takes my stunned silence as an opportunity to continue rambling.

"Why else do you think I'd go along with all this?" he asks, waving his hands around with his words. "I mean, sure, I only went along with it 'cause you're hot, and it would look good. Maybe even get Clary off my back. But you're actually a cool girl, Peyton. You don't care what everyone thinks. And not in that weird 'fuck society, I can be a unicorn if I wanna be' kind of way. You just don't give a shit what people say. It's awesome. Not to mention what you did for Addy and Eli. It takes balls to stand up for people like that."

I'm not sure what's going on in my head right now. I'm hearing everything Hunter is saying, but any responses I can come up with short-circuit somewhere between my brain and my mouth. So, I stand there silently, astounded by his surprisingly long proclamation.

Hunter takes a step towards me, reclaiming the space he had put between us. His warm hands settle on my waist, and I feel a jolt of electricity under his touch.

"You're different, Peyton. You're a challenge. You don't put up with my bullshit and, hell, you can outwit me on my best days. Not to mention you're fucking gorgeous, 'cause that is a giant bonus," he tells me, his lips twisting up into an uneven smile at the end. With a sigh of a laugh, he shakes his head. "Is it really so hard for you to believe that I could actually like you, Skirt?"

As if I wasn't already an incoherent puddle of mush inside, I definitely am by the time he calls me "Skirt". I take a breath and open my mouth to say something, anything, to keep from looking like a flabbergasted idiot, but it changes when a single sober thought crosses my mind.

"You're a player," I say softly, my eyes searching his from underneath my lashes.

I would go so far as to say I'm good at reading people. They do say that the eyes are the window to the soul, and they're not entirely wrong. But all I see in Hunter's eyes are endless pools of baby blue that I might very well drown in if I keep staring into them so intensely.

"And you're a former rich girl who works at a fifties diner in a nothing-to-do town in Arkansas. People change, Skirt," he insists. "Or maybe you just played a better game than me. Congratulations."

I'd told myself before, back when all of this started, that I would show Hunter Maddox how to play the game. And now, here I am, listening to him tell me that I did it. The pauper out-played the player. I won.

But what does that mean exactly? Is it over? Do we keep playing along? Do we ignore the fact that, against my best efforts, I've maybe, possibly started to feel something real for this idiot standing in front of me?

Questions fly through my mind at rapid-fire speed, but I don't have time to process them. My brain is too attuned to the fact that that same idiot's hands are gripping my hips, and I'm being completely overwhelmed by the smell of his cologne. Not to mention I can feel his goddamn breath on my face every time he breathes.

I've never been at a loss like this before. I always know what to do and how to act, like a script in my mind that I follow. But with Hunter, it's different. He told me that I'm a challenge, but that's what he is to me. He challenges me with these annoying feelings I have, whether he means to or not. He doesn't act how I expect him to, dropping his guard and allowing me to see a different side of him, a side away from school and drama. The side that offers to give an elderly lady a ride to her daughter's house without any kind of payment. The side that helps outcasts feel like they belong by giving them a chance. The side that listens when I ramble on drunkenly about my parents' divorce.

The side that's standing in front of me, right now, telling me he actually likes me, likes me.

This time, I know why I do it. And it's not just me.

My arms go around his neck at the same times his hands slip around my waist. We lean in at the same time, and our lips meet in the middle in an "oh my god, why the hell did we wait this long, shut up and kiss me," kind of kiss. He pulls me into his chest firmly, and I don't resist. He doesn't have to ask before I part my lips, and deepen the kiss to the point where I'm not sure if we'll ever come up for air.

I forget all about how cold it is when Hunters hands travel up and follow my spine back down until they rest just below the small of my back. A small part of me is surprised that he doesn't grab my ass, given how often he "accidentally" does, but the rest of me is overwhelmed by the feeling of his hard body pressed against mine.

Our mouths move hungrily against one another's, and I tangle my fingers in his hair. Before I realize what's happening, he backs me up until my back is flush with the side of the house. I let out a soft gasp as the rough brick hits my back, but the brief pain is long forgotten when his hands grab my bare legs and he lifts me up in the air.

I'm no stranger to kissing boys. It's a field in which I'm highly educated. But the way Hunter kisses me, the way it makes me feel a million things at once, it's something I have no experience with. Sure, the way he touches me feels good. But just a smile sends my heart beating a million miles a minute. A simple touch shoots electricity through my veins. And when he kisses me... I never want it to end.

Despite the raging hormones, we seem to remember that we are in fact in his friend's backyard, and eventually our frantic make out session simmers down. My legs unwind from his waist and my sock feet find the ground. We pull away from each other at the same time, but his hands remain firmly at my waist. I keep my arms around his neck.

Neither of us says anything right away. We're both too busy catching our breath. But, after a few moments of breathing and intense staring, I return his gaze with a lazy, comfortable smile.

"I guess I might kind of like you too," I admit.

Hunter's face lights up in a gleaming uneven smirk and, this time, I don't try to mentally pass off the butterflies in my stomach as a gluten intolerance.

"Well, that's damn good to hear, Skirt," he chuckles, leaning in and pressing a slow, delicious kiss to my lips.

It's over all too soon.

"As much as I wanna keep doing that," he says, just before he does it again. "It's goddamn cold out here." With a sigh, Hunter pulls me away from the wall. "We should probably get back inside before they think we killed each other or something."

I laugh as he drops his grip on my waist in exchange for tucking me under his arm where I'm pressed into his side. "You mean, before they think I killed you."

Hunter chuckles, and I feel it vibrate against my palm on his chest. "Yeah, I guess that's more likely."

Together, we turn to head for the French doors that promise the warmth of beds and blankets inside. But, before we can even reach for the door handle, we're greeted by an unexpected sight.

There, taped to the glass door with two pieces of masking tape, is a shiny, foil-wrapped condom.

"CAMERON!"

So, I can basically sum up my author's note in one gif. Which has got to be a miracle for me.

Lots of love,