Page 23 of Bloom

“Leave her alone, Cass.” The redhead, Tiny,Amelia, interrupts us, her intimidating boyfriend trailing behind her.

A hand pressed to his chest, Cass feigns offense. “I’m not doing anything. She’s coming onto me.”

Before I can do something dramatic like die of embarrassment, Amelia rolls her eyes. Her expression apologetic, she turns to me. “If you ignore him, he’ll eventually go away.” Her staged whisper fades into a screech of protest as she gets caught in a headlock and hauled away by Cass, who tosses a wink at me over his shoulder.

I watch the pair walk away, my smile fading when I catch sight of the man lurking in the background. I resist the urge to groan—apparently, Hunter and I are back to the whole scowling thing. I knew the last two interactions were too good to be true.

Before the disappointment can really fester, a hand lands on my shoulder, making me jump. “You scared me,” I scold Jackson, instinctively knocking him in the ribs with my elbow.

As quickly as it appeared, his touch falls away. “Can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” A sense of foreboding settles in my stomach when he ushers me out of ear shot of anyone lingering around. “What’s up?”

“Did you give my sister alcohol last night?”

Crap.

“Eliza,” he clarifies. “Did you give my sixteen-year-old little sister alcohol?”

I gulp. “Yes. But—”

“What the fuck, Caroline?” His sharp tone makes me flinch, as does the curse he mutters harshly. “What were you thinking?”

Common sense begs me to tell him that it was Lux who asked me to buy it, but another voice, a louder one, insists that trying to shuck the blame onto someone else will just make it worse. After all, I did buy it. I did give it to her. And, despite what I joked yesterday, I’d rather he be mad at me than at Lux. “I'm sorry.”

Jackson sighs frustratedly, brushing a hand down his face. “Listen, I get that you and Lux are friends now, and I appreciate everything you've done to help us, but this is too far. Boundaries, Caroline.”

Embarrassment flushes my cheeks, crawling up my throat like bile, lingering behind my eyes until my head hurts. “I'm sorry. You're right, I shouldn't have done that.”

An awkward silence settles between us, one that I break by clearing my throat and smiling as brightly as I can manage. “I should go. I need to take Nova home.”

Jackson simply nods, letting me walk away without another word. I bite my lip to stop it from trembling, keeping my head down as I hurry towards Nova. I practically fold in half when I pass Hunter, lurking too close by to not have heard every word of that. Even when I think I hear him grumble my name, I don’t look up.

I'm probably just hearing things anyway.

8

Birds chirp. The sun beats down. He swears the wind whispers ‘what are you doing?’

He has no fuckin’ idea.

After that first hike,I learned my lesson.

With a baseball cap looped around the handle of my backpack, a pair of sunglasses shielding my eyes from the glaring sun, and a bottle of sunscreen—anda bottle of aloe vera in case I forgot to reapply said sunscreen—I’m prepared. I’moverprepared, if anything.

With the sun shining and a gentle breeze counteracting the dry heat, I hum along to the radio as I drive the winding roads towards the Lakes Trail starting point. I’m anxious to get going today. To work off some of the extra anxiety plaguing me sincethatconversation with Jackson. And I feel good about today—my gut tells me it’ll be a good one.

My gut wavers, though, when my GPS informs me I’ve reached my destination and I find a familiar, battered truck occupying the parking lot. A coincidence, surely. Dusty old pick-ups aren’t exactly a rare commodity around these parts. Sure, they usually have California plates, not out-of-state, but…

No buts. I could kid myself into pretending there just so happens to be two brown Ford trucks with Georgia plates within driving distance of Sequoia.

The Hulk lookalike leaning against the hood, however, is one of a kind.

What the hell?

I take way,waytoo long to successfully maneuver into the free spot beside Hunter’s truck. I spend even longer fumbling my keys while shutting off the engine, and another few minutes scrambling for my stuff, all too aware of the eyes watching me through the window.

Eventually, knuckles rap gently against the hood of my truck—time’s up.

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