Page 101 of Bloom

I shake my head.

“Wanna come over?”

“To your place?” I may or may not squeak a little.

“Uh-huh. We can talk some more.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “Order food.” The curve of my jaw. “Watch a movie.” The slope of my cheekbone. “Bring whatever shit you need to stay over.”

To stay—

There’s no time to argue. With another ass smack that very much contradicts one last sweet kiss, Hunter leaves, barking some kind of warning at the couple lurking on the porch acting like they weren’t spying on our entire interaction.

To stay over, he said. At his place. All night. In his bed. With him.

Oh.

This is bad. This is really, really bad. The more I think about it, the more I stare at Hunter’s kitchen, the worse it gets.

I was just trying to do something nice. I figured that, instead of takeout, I’d pick up some groceries. Make us a real dinner. Sneak in before he finished work, courtesy of the spare key hidden under the flower pot on the porch, and surprise him. Because that’s a nice, casual thing to do, right?

Wrong.

So very wrong.

It looks like a date. It’s actually giving me a headache, how much this looks like a date. It’s not like I lit candles or brought wine or made a rose petal trail to the bed. There are no quiet, seductive slow-jams setting the mood.

But a home-cooked meal warming in the oven? The brand of beer he likes chilling in the fridge? And me, breaking into his house, dressed in a calf-length pretty pink dress with a criss-crossed open back—a damn date dress—looking like a wife welcoming her husband home from a long day’s work?

Oh, and scratch what I said about the rose petals. Because flowers, I did get. A bouquet and a brand new vase on his kitchen table. Hissetkitchen table, made up with plates and cutlery and napkins and a pitcher of freaking lemonade.

Turns out, there isn’t a casual bone in my body.

By the time I hear the tell-tale creak of the porch steps, it’s a miracle I have any fingernails left. When the front door opens, I freeze mid-panicked pace, braced like I’m about to get hit by a freaking car as Hunter strolls inside.

Thundersinside, I should say.

He doesn’t even see me at first, too busy scowling at the ground. It’s only when he slams the door and I jump, stumbling back a step and squeaking a high-pitched ‘crap’ when I catch my elbow on the edge of the counter, that he realizes my presence.

Anger swiftly fades to surprise, that mouth opening to break my heart just a little. “What’re you doing here?”

A valid question, considering I broke in and everything, but I still cringe—a reaction I attempt to hide with a smile. An easy, breezy,casualsmile. “I made dinner.”

Hunter looks at the oven, his brows two dark slashes, and I have the sudden urge to shrivel up and die. “I overstepped, right?”

He says nothing. He just keeps frowning, and I guess that’s my answer—I guess I need to figure out how to hurtle through the door with Hunter blocking my exit route. I could throw myself out the window to escape this suffocating silence, and I think if I had to suffer a second longer, I would. Except suddenly, it’s broken.

A drawn-out, utterly exhausted sigh echoes around the kitchen and makes something in my chest throb. Two tired strides carry Hunter towards me. One tiny shuffle gets him as close as he can get. Another slight movement wraps me tightly in his arms, smushes me against his chest, lifts me a few inches off the ground as he buries his face in my hair.

“Thanks, honey.” He sounds drained. Like he mustered up every last bit of strength just to get those two words out. And two more zap the nerves right out of me. “Needed it.”

I melt into his embrace. Feeling awkward just hanging there with my feet dangling, I tentatively wrap my legs around his waist, a cheek-burningly familiar position, and he’s quick to prop me on the counter, not pausing his fierce hug for a single second.

I don’t complain; I’m more than happy like this. As the minutes tick by, my hands wander. Run through his hair and across broad shoulders, rub gently at a pair of rigid shoulders, journey as far down his back as I can reach and up again with long, soothing strokes—the kind I like, and that Hunter seems to like too because he burrows deeper into the crook of my neck, another one of those deep sighs warming my skin.

It feels like forever passes before some of the tension holding him taut leaches from his body, enough that I almost balk under the heavy weight of him slumping against me. “Long day,” he quietly drawls, the explanation simple yet loaded.

When he doesn’t offer anything more, I try not to take it personally. I choose not to push. “You want some food?”

“Do I have to let you go to eat?”

---