Page 18 of Bloom

I jump at the sudden husky intrusion, making a startled Alex cry out. Bringing him to my chest and whispering an apology, I reluctantly turn around. My cheeks flush at the sight of Hunter filling up the doorway, a bowl of food in one hand and a glass of what looks like iced tea in the other. Clutching Alex a little tighter, I spin back around. “I'm in your way again?”

Surprise, surprise, he doesn't say anything.

As boots thump against the creaky porch, I keep my gaze focused on the sweet baby boy on my lap, but a gentle thud has me instinctively glancing aside. I jerk back slightly when I findHunter crouching beside me, nodding towards the dishware he set down. “Lux says you gotta eat.”

He emphasizes his boss’ name—God forbid I thoughthewas bringing me dinner out of the goodness of his heart. “Tell Lux I say thank you.”

Hunter nods stiffly. I expect him to flee as quickly as he usually does, but he doesn't. He lingers, his gaze flickering between me, the baby, and the fork I use to spear some chicken. I notice it never lands directly on me, though. It brushes over me, light and fleeting, and never does he risk eye contact. Cheeks, ears, collarbones, the smattering of freckles on my shoulders, they all earn his brief attention, but never my eyes. When I bring the fork to my mouth, his gaze follows, and I feel my skin heating in response.

Weird.

“Did you want some?”

Hunter jolts. Clearing his throat roughly, he shakes his head and straightens as quickly as that large body will allow. He doesn't go back inside. Without another word, he strides towards the barn, and I'm entirely ashamed to say that I watch his retreating form until he disappears from sight.

The air smells like smoke, alcohol, and enough men’s cologne to choke a girl.

I don’t know how I found myself amongst a throng of guys I went to high school with. One minute, I was floating around, politely greeting people, trying to find someone I actually wanted to talk to, trying harder to hide from people I really didn’t want to, trying the hardest not to cling pathetically to Lux. The next, Matty Jenkins was yanking on my arm, the same wayhe yanked when he asked me out a few years ago, Post-Jackson, when I was—and this is a direct quote I accidentally overheard—a‘heartbroken, easy target.’

He calls meCarol. Tells me I got real pretty. Asks if I want a drink, and makes a face when I decline. His friends are just as charming. Some of them I know—Jerry Davis, who was in my homeroom for four years, asks if we know each other three times—and the others, he must’ve picked up in college.

All of them are chugging beers like they’re on a time crunch.

The drunker they get, the more on edge I become. Inebriated people always have that effect on me. Men, in particular. I can handle it, though. I’m not just areal prettyface—I’m real good at putting on a show too. When they burp, I laugh. When they brag about their lives, I smile and pretend to be interested. When they give me crap for not drinking, I quip something self-deprecating about being a lightweight.

When Matty grabs me by the chin, though, I falter. He pinches a little too hard for comfort, trying to get me to open my mouth as he tilts my head back, laughing a joke I don’t quite hear. I dodge just in time to avoid a mouthful of beer, the amber liquid sloshing down my chest instead.

“Oops.” The lazy quirk of his mouth makes my heart beat a little faster. “Let me clean that up.”

“That’s okay.” I wave him off good-naturedly. I smile. I roll my eyes like I think his sleazy comment and the hand reaching for my chest are funny. “I’ll be right back.”

I’m out of there before anyone can protest, not that they do. Out of sight, out of mind, I know that’s a drunk man’s philosophy, and I’m only a few steps away before I hear their interest move elsewhere—dude, Jackson’s new girlfriend is so hot.

Walking quickly towards the house, I keep my head up, still smiling, smiling, smiling as if nothing is the matter. When myskin gets a little tingly, that telltale sensation of being watched, I only smile harder and speed up.

It’s mercifully quiet inside. The bathroom is a little disgusting considering half the town’s population has been using it, but it’s empty, and a perfect refuge for a brief break. Releasing the breath I feel like I’ve been holding all night, I grip the edge of the sink and grimace at my reflection in the mirror above it.

Bright red cheeks. Watery, bloodshot eyes. A splotchy, stinky stain on the bodice of my favorite yellow sundress.

Surprisingly, no stamp on my forehead that reads‘mess with me.’

As I wet a towel and wipe beer off my skin, I sigh. A voice in the back of my head calls me dramatic, says I’m too sensitive, and I try to shake it away. I try really hard because I know that voice and I don't want to hear it—I don’t want to be reminded of my dad. I don’t want to think about him, wonder what he’s doing, why he hasn’t called again since that one time, if he’s okay, because it’s a sinkhole train of thought, one that’ll drag me under and consume me until I’m on his doorstep, checking on him.

All of a sudden, the bathroom is too quiet, no longer providing the peace I wanted.

Almost as soon as I open the door, I have to work like hell to resist the urge to slam it shut again. Because across from me, slouched against the wall with his arms crossed, is Hunter. I flinch at the sight of him, self-consciously swiping my fingers beneath my eyes, raking a hand through my hair, fixing my dress.

Expression unreadable, his eyes are much the same as they swoop the length of me. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t say anything.

Surprisingly, neither do I.

My social battery is running dangerously low. I don’t have the energy to fend off his attitude. I barely have enough for apolite nod of acknowledgement before I scurry away, down the hall, into the kitchen and making a beeline for the refrigerator. Snagging a can of soda, I hold it against my flushed cheeks.

When I peek over my shoulder, Hunter abruptly faces forward. The jerky movement makes me frown, reminding me of something. I caught him doing the same thing earlier tonight, I think. More than once. Looking away like I’d caught him staring.

I don’t really get why he’s here. He’s made it clear he’s not a conversationalist, not even fond of being in the general vicinity of other people. Those few times I caught him maybe-staring, he was standing on the edge of a group, silently nursing a beer, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

I could ask. If I weren’t feeling so rough around the edges, I probably would. But I am, so I don’t. Instead, I turn back around and open my soda, rummaging around for a glass in the upper cabinets because I hate drinking from the can—and maybe a little because I’m stalling, working up the nerve to head back outside and face the masses.

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