Page 120 of Bloom

Silky, brown locks brush my cheeks as Hunter shakes his head. “You didn’t.”

I pull back just enough to gauge his answer, to see the truth. “When did you file for divorce, Hunter?”

The split second pause it takes for him to answer confirms what I already suspected. “After I kissed you.”

“Right.” I retreat another inch. “Because we kissed.”

Easily, he closes the distance once more. “Because I didn’t wanna be married to her. Idon’twant to be married to her. I want you, Caroline.”

I wish I could believe that.Howam I supposed to believe that? “She’s your wife, Hunter. You married her. You wanted kids with her. You wouldn’t even date me.”

“That’s not fair.”

The soft accusation makes me jerk away, and this time, more than mere inches separate us. I’m on my feet, across the porch, grabbing the doorknob before he even blinks, sad determination driving me. “I’mnot being fair? Really,Hunt?”

He winces.

I turn away. I open the door, only stepping one foot inside before glancing over my shoulder. “Go home, Hunter. Please. I need you to go home.”

By the look on his face, I can tell he’s not sure if I mean the cabin or Georgia.

Honestly, I’m not sure either.

36

“She’s already taken so much from you,” his momma reminds him over the phone as he contemplates doing what he’s told.

“Don’t let her take this too.”

An ill-fitting pairof borrowed sneakers wreak havoc on my feet. Athleisure-wear a size too small clings in all the wrong places, shorts riding up and sports bra chafing. Pain shoots up my legs with every step, inhibiting my ability to appreciate my picture-perfect surroundings.

Bounding ahead, I swear Mama and Herc mock my slow, hobbled pace, tongues lolling as they yip at me to hurry the hell up. Just like I swear they laughed when, a few hundred feet back, I tripped and ate dirt so spectacularly embarrassingly. I, on the hand, definitely did not laugh as I peeled myself off the ground and hissed at the gravel-embedded knees that barely just healed from their last set of scrapes.

“Go for a hike,” I mutter beneath my breath, scowling at the blue, late summer sky. “It’ll help.”

In defense of my past self, it usually does. Usually, there’s no better way for me to burn off some extra energy, to untangle knotted thoughts, to distract myself. Not today, though. Not after the few days I’ve had—the longest few days of my life, full of tears and avoidance and enough disbelief to make a girl disassociate from reality completely.

I consider it a small miracle that I haven’t. A bigger miracle that I managed to get out of bed at all this morning, to leave my apartment, to brave the rolling hills of Serenity Ranch despite the risk of running into a married hand. The biggest miracle of all; I saw Hunter. From a distance and separated by a solid wall and a window pane, but I saw him. He saw me.

I didn’t collapse. I didn’t spontaneously combust. I didn’t burst into tears either, although I was pretty close. I resisted the urge to rush outside, to let him convince me to forgive him more than I already have. And for that tremendous display of restraint, I thought I’d celebrate with a hike—or rather, I thought I’d get the hell off Serenity before I crumbled, so I stole some clothes from Lux and hauled ass out of there.

Clearly a sound decision, since I’m trodding back to my car with blood dripping down my limbs.

“Herc,” I reprimand the little guy when I almost step on him for the third time. Gently nudging him away with my foot, he nips at my shoelaces before taking off on an erratic, winding path towards the parking lot just beyond the upcoming bend. Casting a glance at a much calmer Mama, we share a look that feels an awful lot like one two parents might exchange over their misbehaving child.

I whistle for Herc to slow down, to come back where I can see him, but he pays me no heed, and a little bit of worry flares—he might not be as fragile as he once was, but he’s still just a pup. My limping walk becomes more of a limping jog as I pick upspeed, fuelled by the draw of a first aid kit in my glovebox and the hot, greasy meal I’m definitely stopping for on the way home.

I come to an abrupt, skidding halt when I find my truck is no longer the lone occupant of the parking lot like it was when I first got here. Another joins it now; an all-too-familiar Ford with an all-too-familiar man leaning against it.

His face may be hidden by a baseball cap, athletic shorts and a compression shirt replacing his usual attire, but I don’t think anything could staunch how easily I recognize Hunter Whitlock.

As I approach, he straightens leisurely, eyes scanning me slowly, and I wonder if he’s purposely trying to unsettle me; if he’s purposely trying to distract me when he takes off his hat and rakes a hand through his hair. “Like takin’ care of you, Line, but I don’t like this pattern.”

Silent, I school my features to hide my confusion, again wondering if the slightly teasing statement nonchalantly sighed by a man who looks anything but is some kind of trick meant to disarm.

Big hands resting on big hips, he pushes off his truck and closes the distance between us. “What happened?”

I blink. “Nothing.”

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