Page 10 of Bloom

I don't like it. I don't like it one bit.

Dropping my gaze again, I head for the door. “Goodnight.”

His gruff reply follows me outside. “Night.”

4

He’s more irritable than usual today, but he’s sure it has nothing to do with her absence.

An angrily beepingalarm wakes me from a fitful sleep. Rolling over with a groan, I slap around blindly in its direction until the merciless noise stops, groaning again when I open my eyes and darkness greets me.

Market day, I remind myself when I start to question why the hell I’m up before the sun.Your favorite.

I slept like crap. Tossed and turned for hours, unable to stop my mind from spinning in endless circles, all because of that freaking phone call. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get my dad’s slurred voice out of my head—couldn’t get Hunter’s face out of there either, looking at me like he could see right through me. More than once in the night, the mere memory of the intensity of that look made me shiver. At some point in the wee hours of the morning, I decided I much prefer the blank passiveness he usually regards me with.

Pushing any and all men from my mind, I force myself out of bed, swapping pajamas for a sundress and deciding the mussed braid I slept in is perfectly fine if it means I have time to make coffee. To-go mug in hand, feet shoved into sandals, and a tote bag slung over my shoulder, I’m out the door and on the road in fifteen minutes, only a couple of hours away from my personal utopia.

By the time I arrive, the sun peeks over the horizon, casting golden light over the various tents dotted around the huge parking lot I pull into. That familiar, relieved feeling hits me at the colorful sight, the lingering remnants of a fitful sleep haunted by grumpy cowboys and crappy dads evaporating. Parking in my usual spot, I book it towards the growing early morning crowd.

“Carolina!”

A thickly accented voice sings my name the second I reach the stalls. Working on auto-pilot, I turn to where I know a grinning man will be waving enthusiastically, and I grin right back, even wider when he shouts loud enough for the whole market to hear, “We missed you last week,bella.”

“Aldo,” I greet my friend as he tugs me into his arms, laughing when he kisses both my cheeks dramatically, not even the tiniest bit surprised when sneaky fingers steal my to-go mug. As he cracks the lid and peers inside, that aquiline nose turns up, but he takes a sip anyway—no matter how‘bastardized’my Italian friend claims my‘sorry excuse’for coffee to be, the sickly sweet hazelnut creamer never actually deters him. “What've you got for me?”

Dark eyes twinkle with excitement. As loudly and passionately as he did the first time we met, the supplier of my preferred drug shows off what he set aside for me—an honor I’ve earned after three years of being Aldo Bianchi’s friend.

It started as him being the best flower supplier in the market; the first stop on my weekly jaunts. Then, it progressed to fervent but playful judgment over my choice of beverages—my dislike of espresso remains a point of contention between us. Before I knew it, things snowballed. Once, when my dad changed the locks and forgot to tell me, it was Aldo’s couch I slept on—though, I never did tell him the reason. A few months after that, I helped him propose to his partnerandI was a bridesmaid in his wedding. Just last year, they adopted a little girl who now calls mezia. The Bianchi family might be the only people I’m one hundred percent sure love me, and I love them just as dearly—and not just because Aldo saves me the best of the blooms.

“Your favorite.” Aldo proudly brandishes one bunch in particular, and my favorites, they certainly are. Bright orange daisies; weeds, some might say, but to me, the phrase‘sunshine to the ground’has always felt more apt. “To fix your mood, hm?”

Not for the first time, I curse my face for being such an open book. “I’m not in a mood.”

Aldo denies my denial with a dismissive wave of his flower-holding hand. “What did your father do?”

I snatch the pretty flowers before he accidentally smacks someone with them. Holding them to my nose, I inhale the fresh, sweet scent to counteract the bile that gathers at the back of my throat at the mention of my dad. “Nothing.”

He huffs, knowing I’m lying, thoughhow muchI’m lying, he’s oblivious to. As far as he’s concerned, my fights with my dad are the same kind any other twenty-two-year old has with their parent. Which is why he moves on so quickly. “The handsome ranch man, then.”

Frowning, I absently pluck the petals from the droopy runt of the floral litter just to give my hands something to do, only feeling a little bad about it. “I never said he was handsome.”

“The mean ones always are.”

Not true, I start to protest, but I catch myself when I realize a boy who dumped me is my only real example of that.

With one last sniff, I tuck the daisies into my bag, careful not to crush the delicate petals. Everything else, Aldo keeps hidden away from the other flower scavengers while I do a leisurely lap of the stalls, taking my sweet time relishing in the hustle and bustle. My name gets called so often my ears ring, my neck cramps from twisting in every direction, but I don’t mind. I love that I’m liked here; I love that no one from Haven Ridge comes here so no one knows me as anyone other than the girl who buys more flowers than she can carry. And true to that, by the time I make it back to where I started, I’m laden down with colorful, fragrant bunches, both bought and gifted by people who missed me last week.

Blinking silly, unshed tears away—something about people noticing my absence really shatters my admittedly feeble defenses—I enlist Aldo to help lug my haul back to my truck. When everything is safely stowed in the backseat, he dusts off his hands before planting them on his hips, hitting me with an expectant look. “Dinner this weekend, yes?”

“I can't. Lux had her baby so I'm on temporary ranch hand duty.” And at her request, surprisingly—you would’ve thought she called to let me know I won the lottery, not that she needed help shoveling horse crap.

Aldo, grown man that he is, pouts. “Chiara misses you.”

“I'll come see her next week,” I promise, smiling at the mention of his ten-year-old. She's the cutest thing, a ball of hyper, wild energy that so greatly differs from the shy, timid girl they brought home almost a year and a half ago.

In the blink of an eye, the pout disappears and something sly and slightly terrifying curls the corner of my friend’s mouth instead. “My cousin will be visiting next week.”

I’m no genius, but it doesn’t take one to know where this is going.

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