Page 121 of Bloom

Ever-so-subtly, his jaw locks. “You're bleedin’.”

“Tripped.”

One word answers. I can handle one little word. I can’t mess up one little word. Even if one little word makes Hunter scowl like that.

Kissing his teeth, he reaches for me, and for a moment, I forget. I forget I’m upset and mad and a million other things, and I let him carefully take hold of me and tug me towards him. Little traitors that they are, the dogs follow without instruction, needing no encouragement to hop into the open truck bed, two sets of canine eyes waiting expectantly for me to join them.

I almost do before my brain kicks into gear.

Abruptly stepping back, I jerk my hand away and hide both behind my back, like that might stop him from staring at me like I’m some wounded puppy. Another shuffle brings me closer to my car. One more and I’m able to grasp the handle on the driver’s side. “I’m fine.”

Two words.Come on, Caroline.

Tugging on the door, I barely open it before a firm hand plants itself against the frame and pushes it shut. When I try again, the same thing happens. The third foiled attempt draws a frustrated noise from my throat, but that only serves to quirk the corner of an infuriating mouth. “I can do this all day, honey.”

Don’t call me that. Don’t be charming. Don’t look at me because I can’t think when you look at me.

When he looks at me, my determination wavers. It dies, if I’m being honest, when he quietly asks if I really fell, and looks so damn relieved when I nod. My self-control suffers a quick, unfortunate demise that leaves me susceptible to cautious fingers wrapping around my wrist, to being led around his truck, to him patting the bed and me obeying the silent command.

At least I don’t let him help me up, I do that all on my own, and I sit there sullenly—or at least as sullen as I’m capable of being—while Hunter mops up my wounds for… what, the third time now? Maybe he’s right about that habit thing.

At least he’s quiet as he dabs a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic across my knees—at least he has cotton balls and antiseptic and real, name-brand BandAids that actually stick properly because evidently, his first aid kit is a lot better than mine. At least our physical contact is limited to the occasional, clinical brush of his fingers against my stinging skin.

Except for the thumb on my wrist, right above my pulse. My rapidly fluttering pulse that I blame on adrenaline, not on our proximity. Nevertheless, I’m grateful when he retreats, leaving my pulse free to race, and me to breathe un-Hunter scented air.

I’m less grateful when, after dipping in the truck’s open back window, he drops a bouquet of flowers in my lap. Daisies in every shade of red, orange, and yellow.

Damn it.

A defeated sigh of his name only makes him hop up beside me, the metal creaking under his weight, and I oddly relate—the hand nonchalantly settling on my thigh certainly makes me wobble.

My efforts to move it are futile. Worse than futile, actually, because somehow, it ends with him holding my hand, and refusing to let it go.

I sigh. “I thought we agreed we were gonna stop this.”

A calloused thumb traces the slope of mine. “Pretty sure I never agreed to anything.”

“You were right, okay? I’m not cut out for casual. We can just go back to being—”friends, I almost say. Like I’m strong enough to handle that. Like he might be sticking around to be my friend. Like his wife isn’t still trolling the town, and just the knowledge of her being near makes me sick to my stomach.

That’s notfriendly.

So I amend, “We can just forget.”

“No.”

I blink. “No?”

“No,” he repeats. “Fuckno. You wanna wait ‘til I’m officially divorced? Fine. I’m patient. I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s not—”

That’s not what I meant,I was going to say, but evidently he doesn’t care what I meant. He doesn’t let me clarify. He shakes his head, firm,vehement. “Be mad at me, Caroline,” he says—hebegs. “I can handle it. I’ll spend the rest of my life apologizin’ for it. Just don’t be done. Please, don’t be done.”

I find Lux sprawled on a blanket in the middle of a field, basking in the afternoon sun while her son dozes in a shaded travel cot.

Leaving my truck parked beside hers, I flop down next to her. “What does it mean when a man says they’re gonna spend the rest of their life apologizing to you?”

Lux drops the book she’s reading onto her chest, head lolling towards me. “Pretty sure that’s a marriage proposal.”

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