Love, Utley (Love Letters #1)

She notices me and turns her head.

“Everything okay?” I ask quietly, but since Chelsea is between us, it’s not private.

Hannah nods. “I’m really good.”

I watch her face for any signs of unease but don’t find any. “If you’re feeling left out about the necklaces, I can go get you one.”

“I’m pretty jealous, but I’ll survive.” She gestures to her eyes. “It’s a good disguise.”

I nod. “And they look cool.”

That gets me a laugh. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Hannah’s eyes dart to the row behind us, then she leans toward me.

I nudge Chelsea. “Smidge, scoot up a smidge.”

She huffs but slides forward on her seat so Hannah and I can lean together behind her.

We keep our faces turned forward, but it’s obvious we’re talking.

“I told the guys behind us that you’d take a photo with them after the game,” she whispers.

“Okay,” I whisper back.

“And, um, I told them you were my boyfriend,” she says nervously. “It’s just that they thought you were her dad and I panicked and I—”

I turn my head so I can press my lips to Hannah’s temple.

She stops talking.

“Little Bunny,” I whisper against her ear, making sure she hears me. “I am your boyfriend. And I’m the last one you’ll ever have.”

EIGHTY-THREE

HANNAH

“Hannah, hold the door!”

I almost groan out loud at the sound of Brandon’s voice because, really, I don’t want to hold the door open for him. But I do because even he can’t ruin the overall feeling of happiness that has settled over me.

“Thanks,” Brandon heaves the word like he just finished a 5K.

“No problem” is what I say, but “Go away” is what I think.

Donut Guy is at his table, and Roberts is filling up his coffee thermos as we cross the break room.

I shift my container of leftover casserole into my left hand and pull the fridge open with my right.

Once the door is already open, Brandon— who is now completely crowding my personal space— pulls the door open farther so he can grab one of his nasty energy drinks from the shelf in the door.

Yeah, please, barge right in.

As I reach to put my food on the shelf, there’s already a glass container in the spot I usually put my lunch.

And then I freeze. Because there’s a Post-it, with my name on it, stuck to the lid of the container in the fridge.

Brandon finally steps back, and I shift closer to look through the clear sides of the dish.