Read Stepping Out for Free Online Page B

messages and one missed call. All from Hunter.
    For him, I’ll wake up to the sound of slaughtered crows any day of the week. I bunch my pillow up under my head and hit Redial .
    “What is wrong with you?” I ask when he answers. “It’s not even seven thirty yet.” So what if I’m happy to hear from him? I can’t let him know that.
    “I take it you’re still in bed?”
    I flush. There’s something incredibly intimate about his voice whispering in my ear while I’m lying half naked under the covers. Even if I am wearing a ripped Friends T-shirt that has a big ketchup stain across Jennifer Aniston’s face. “Of course I’m still in bed.”
    “So you haven’t seen the Seattle Times ?”
    “Since I haven’t quite mastered the whole reading-in-my-sleep thing yet, that would be a no.”
    “There’s a huge picture of you on the front of today’s entertainment section,” he says. “Come downstairs and answer your front door. I bought three extra copies.”
    And the doorbell rings.

    Okay, so my picture isn’t that huge. And I’m not the only one on the front of the entertainment section either. The guy from Spokane, Jacob Muller, is beside me. But Dylan Shaw has repeated his pronouncement that he expects me to win. He has compared me to Amy Poehler. In his first paragraph. Hunter thinks I should be ecstatic. Instead I’m numb. I’m nowhere close to Poehler. She’s, like, up in the stratosphere. I’m somewhere down in middle earth, trying to crawl my way out.
    Hunter looks up from his phone. “The number of your subscribers just went up again.” He’s sprawled on the couch in the TV room, and I’m in Dad’s ratty old easy chair across from him, a copy of the paper spread out at my feet. On the coffee table between us are the two Americanos Hunter brought over, along with an almost empty bag of All Dressed potato chips and a couple of raspberry muffins. “You’ve got over seventy-five hundred.”
    Whoa! That’s two thousand more than I had last night when I went to bed. All because of an article in the Seattle Times . My phone buzzes. Your subscribers are going up BY THE MINUTE , Carly texts. You are already famous .
    What I am is shocked. This whole morning feels unreal. “I can’t believe this.”
    Hunter digs out the last few chips. “Believe it.” His dark hair is sticking up on one side of his head, like he hasn’t combed it properly or hasn’t showered yet this morning. Or like he was in a hurry to drive over and see me. My tummy does a tiny flip-flop.
    Don’t be stupid. As I fold the newspaper sections into one neat pile, I hear voices coming from the kitchen. Mom and Dad? Mom and Brooke? I can’t tell. At least Mom was up when Hunter rang the bell, which gave me a few minutes to throw myself together. Throw being the operative word. When I came downstairs in my jeans and sweater, Hunter calmly pointed out that I had a bright-red streak of something on my chin. It was blush. That’s what I get for trying to multitask before breakfast.
    C U tomorrow , Carly adds. 11:30. DON’T forget .
    How could I? The salon—Fringe Benefits—has called and emailed to remind me of my hair appointment.
    Hunter tosses his phone aside, grabs the empty potato-chip bag and crumples it up. “Why don’t we go out?” he suggests. “Grab something to eat? My treat.”
    Hunter is always asking me to go places. I never used to mind. But last year, when my feelings went through that change, it started to feel awkward. I want to go out out with him, not just hang out.
    “If you’re hungry, have one of the muffins.”
    “I’d rather drive over to Big June’s for her stuffed French toast. Come with me. You love her cinnamon buns.”
    Of course I do. What’s not to love? They’re the size of a dinner plate and loaded with enough sugar to send you into a diabetic coma. That’s the other problem. Not diabetic comas (I always order a side of scrambled eggs, and I’m pretty sure the protein cancels out