Page 2 of Bloom

The new guy, on the other hand, offers no such thing. Leaning against a truck that looks almost as old as mine, he squints at the paddock where the ranch’s rescue horses roam, either oblivious to my arrival or unbothered by it.

Unbeknownst to him, I am excellent at being ignored. Truly skilled at it, really, and even better at pretending it doesn’t bother me. Plus, while he pretends I don’t exist and Elizacontinues chattering like I never interrupted, I get the chance to ogle freely.

There’s something inexplicablyroughabout the mysterious man, from the tips of scuffed boots to the rugged cut of his facial features. Scruff covers the lower half of his face, obscuring a softly defined jaw. Brown, long-ish hair curls away from his face, pushed back like he spends a lot of time running his fingers through it. When he does just that, I get a good look at a muscled bicep the size of my freaking head, and a glimpse of the ink peeking out from beneath the tight cuff of his t-shirt. Insatiable curiosity—and the unfortunately inherited genetic inability to never know when to stop—has me daring a step closer, head tilted in an effort to get a better look.

A gruffly cleared throat interrupts my perusal.

My gaze snaps upwards to find stern hazel eyes that lean a little more towards the brown end of the spectrum. Blood rushing to my cheeks, my smile twitches into place as I pretend I wasn’t just caught checking him out red-handed. “You’re the new ranch hand, right?”

A grunt is the only response I get. An affirmative grunt, I think, to the educated guess I made based on the sheer width of the thick thighs straining against worn denim. What else is he gonna be? Lux’s new nanny? I don’t think so. That body was made for tossing hay bales, not for cradling children.

“I'm Caroline.” I hold out my hand for him to shake, purposely wiggling my fingers because then maybe it won’t be so obvious that I’m trembling just a little. “Line.”

He doesn't take my hand. He doesn’tlookat my hand. He doesn’t look at me at all, really. Those pretty eyes land on me for barely a second before flitting away again, frowning into the distance.

Way too many seconds pass before I let my offered greeting drop. Even though nauseating embarrassment creeps up my throat, I still try again. “I—”

He doesn’t evenpretendto not hear me. With a dismissive huff, he wrenches his truck door open, folds that enormous body inside, and ignites a croaky engine to drown out my third useless attempt at conversation.

Okay.

Maybe sometimes, I should take my dad’s advice and shut the hell up.

1

She is the last thing he needs.

He has to remember that.

“Shoot.”

I wince as my keys hit the floor with a clang, the sound echoing around the house way too loudly. Casting a wary glance at the sofa, I breathe a sigh of relief when the snoring doesn’t relent. He’s still out cold, thanks to the combination of a late night, cheap beer, and enough cigarettes to trigger an asthma attack.

My nose wrinkles at the awful lingering aroma as I survey the damage. The fresh stains on an already shoddy carpet, the crumpled cans littering the floor, the overturned ashtray sitting on a coffee table with one snapped leg—IknewI heard something break. It must’ve been an exceptionally good night.

Or an exceptionally bad one.

Shifting the heavy bag hanging off my shoulder, I bend down to retrieve my dropped keys, careful not to jangle them too much. Tiptoeing towards the front door, I open it as quietly aspossible, risking a peek over my shoulder to confirm he’s still passed out before hauling ass to my truck.

The old vehicle creaks in protest as I ease a backdoor open and drop another duffel bag next to the others I snuck out earlier. I packed light—not that I had all that much to pack but a plethora of sundresses—but I still couldn’t risk moving everything at once; trust him to remember I exist at the most inconvenient time, notice my self-eviction, and put a swift stop to it.

I’ve been an anxious mess all week, convinced he’d somehow know my intention, but I made it. I’m out. I—

“Caroline.”

I freeze.Crap.

Quickly slamming the backdoor, I force a smile before turning around. “Morning, Dad.”

Unsurprisingly, he looks terrible. So, so terrible. Dark circles beneath his eyes, a yellow tinge to his fingernails, yesterday’s grubby work clothes mussed from a night spent on the sofa. One dirty hand rises to scratch the patchy, overgrown scruff covering his jaw and neck as he ignores my greeting, glaring at the fist curled around my car keys instead. “Going somewhere?”

Tapping my fingers nervously against my thigh, I offer half the truth. “I have work.”

Like I knew he would, Dad huffs. Eyes rolling, he slumps against the doorway, leaning forward slightly to spit on the driveway. “When’re you gonna get a real job, huh?”

I flinch. “I like my job.”

A mocking snort stabs me in the chest. “Course you do. I'd like my job too if I spent all day fucking around with flowers.”

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