Page 15 of Bloom

Instinctively, I start to offer a greeting, but my lips clamp shut at the last second, my face screwing up when I remember the last time I tried, and spectacularly failed, to talk to him. What was it he said again? Oh, right—I’m not interested. How could I ever forget? It’s not like the mortifying incident has been playing on repeat in my head for weeks or anything.

I think my silence surprises him. I don’t think he expects me to walk past him without a word, just like I certainly don’t expect him to follow me. I almost trip over my own feet at the sound of his heavy footsteps echoing mine, but I persevere. I pretend he isn’t there as I choose my next project, and my choice has absolutely nothing to do with him.

I don’t make a beeline for the armoire missing its doors because it looks light enough for me to move, but big enough to be impressive. But I do definitely regret my decision when I give it one push and it budges approximately zero inches.

Damn it.

Well, I can’t give up now. Not when watchful hazel eyes are glued to my back, judging my every move. Rolling up my metaphorical sleeves, I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts—ranch work unfortunately does not agree with pretty sundresses, and calls for more practical denim—and grab one side of the armoire with both hands, ready to yank as hard as I can.

A noise distracts me before I can. An odd, consistent rhythm, like…

Oh myGod.

Like the sound of a cowboy boot tapping against the floor—as if it’s on the foot of a petulant, impatient child, not a grown freaking man.

A rare flash of indignation straightens my spine. Huffing an incredulous noise, I glance over my shoulder, eyes wide and my brows just about grazing my hairline. “Seriously?”

Hovering what I really think might be an entire foot over my five-eight self, Hunter does an exceptional job looking down his nose at me. “Need a hand?”

It’s truly amazing how three little words manage to soundsocondescending. “I’m good.”

Newly determined, I pull at the ugly hunk of wood that’s bigger than me. It moves, barely, but it does, and thus begins the slow but steady process of me tugging, the armoire barely giving, and Hunter judging my progress—or lack thereof.

A whopping sixty seconds passes before he loses patience.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” As easily as he nudges me aside, Hunter hoists the furniture up. Like, literallyup. A hand on either side, he lifts the thing off the ground and carries it outside like it’s freaking Polly Pocket furniture.

I repeat; show off.

Following him, I try very, very hard not to admire his bulging biceps as he sets the armoire down. “I had it.”

Hunter makes a noise as he dusts the dirt off his palms—not quite a scoff, but something pretty damn close. “Sure.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

He doesn’t even bother scowling. He just peers down at me like I’m not even worth the facial exertion. “You're in my way.”

I wonder if he notices my eye twitching. “I’m just trying to help.”

This time, hedefinitelyscoffs.

What the hell? My palms are more splinters than skin, my lungs more dust than air, but I’m not helping?Seriously?Frustration bubbles in my blood, that unfamiliar indignation growing and morphing into irritation that sizzles beneath my skin and makes my head feel a little fuzzy—makes my questioncome out a little louder than intended. “Have I done something to you?”

Dark, thick brows furrow. “What?”

“Have I done something to you?” I repeat, just a decibel below shrill, ignoring the erratic thump of my heart as I plant my hands on my hips and try not to look like I’m one sharp word away from crumbling. “You seem really mad at me and I don't know what I've done wrong, so I'm asking. I’m not trying to get in your way, or be a nuisance or annoying or useless or whatever else you think I am. I’m just trying to help my friend, and it would be a lot easier if you stopped acting like I ran over your freaking dog or something.”

Slowly, silently, those pretty eyes close. They stay that way for a moment—I recognize that silent prayer for inner strength well, and whatever brave demon is possessing me rears its head a little more—before reopening.

Nostrils flaring as he breathes deep, Hunter shrugs.

Shrugs.

And, in the flattest, most unconvincing tone, he says “You didn’t do anything.”

My bravado deflates a little. So he just doesn’t like me? Something I can’t do anything about? Something I can’t fix?Great. “Can you just stop snapping at me then, please?”

For what feels like the longest moment of my life, Hunter stares at me. Head tilted to one side, lips parted, brows up, he stares. And for that one moment, he almost looks apologetic.

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