Page 114 of Bloom

“You’re going on a date,” Lux sings as she jumps to her feet, bouncing on the bed like a madwoman.

I scoff as I sit up. “What? No, I’m not.”

Lux whacks me with the pillow again. “Did we just hear the same conversation?”

“We’re going out to eat, Lux. We do that all the time. It’s not adate.”

Rolling her eyes, Lux drops to her knees. “You know, every time you do that, I wanna punch my brother in the face.”

“Do what?”

“Act like someone showing a romantic interest in you issopreposterous.”

I squirm, frowning. Was I doing that? “What does that have to do with Jackson?”

She doesn’t say anything, but the look on her face is plenty telling.

Patting me on the shoulder, she rolls off the bed, yanking the sheets off me as she goes. “C’mon, lovebird. Let’s go for a ride. I believe I promised you a conversation.”

Ten minutes later, I’m dressed and following Lux out on the porch, wondering if that conversation is worth her incessant teasing over my so-called date—which absolutely isn’t a date. It’s just dinner. It’s definitely,definitelyjust dinner. Even if Lux tries to convince me otherwise, I’m not going to assume anything else.

The sight of an unfamiliar car coming up the drive is a welcome distraction. Before flicking the switch and becoming Business Owner Alexandra Jackson, Lux shoots me a sideways glance—what is this pristine, tiny sedan doing where no pristine, tiny sedan should ever go?

I shrug in reply—poor little lost tourist.

Descending the porch steps, we wear matching polite smiles as we wave at the woman that climbs out the car. Lux calls out, “Can I help you?”

The smile the mystery woman returns is tight. When she slides her sunglasses off her face, I notice it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m looking for Hunter Whitlock.”

A niggling, foreboding feeling twists my gut, and it’s me who asks, “And you are?”

“Cheryl Whitlock.” The woman casually adjusts the purse strap slung over her shoulder, so nonchalant as she draws attention to the glinting silver band on her ring finger and shatters myfuckinglife. “His wife.”

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He thinks, once upon a time, he loved the woman repeatedly ruining his life.

But honestly, he can’t remember.

She's really,really pretty.

That's the first bizarre thought that pops into my head.

Strawberry blonde. Blue-eyed. Tall and slender. Tan, but in an artificially-manufactured kind of way, I think, because nothing about her indicates she spends anywhere near enough time outdoors to reach that level of sunny bronze—not a freckle, blemish, or wrinkle in sight. Plus, she’s grimacing like the fresh air personally offends her.

Or maybe that's just my effect.

She can’t be Hunter’s wife—that’s my second thought, because I can’t imagine any partner of Hunter disliking the outdoors. Looking so out of place on a ranch. Wearing a white pantsuit and red stilettos that match her lipstick.

I glance down at my own dirt-encrusted boots, at the frayed denim shorts that are really just old jeans with the legs cut off, at my—

The blood drains from my face. Because my wrinkled t-shirt isn’t my t-shirt.

It’s her husband’s.

Hunter is ahusband.

I'm going to be sick.

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