Page 40 of Bloom

Even before I rush over to the order book, already open on the counter, I know I messed up. I don’t need the confirmation, but that’s what I find, along with the added bonus of discovering I really,reallymessed up. We’re not just missing a couple of orders due tomorrow; as I compare the book to a pile of Post Its and the starred emails in the store’s email inbox, I realize the entire rest of the month and almost all of the next are amiss. I check twice, three times, four times before I stop expecting to blink and find something different.

“It's okay,” I shakily reassure both myself and Nova. “I'll fix it.”

Despite the lump in my throat, I snap into autopilot, delegating the easiest of tasks to Nova. It's not her fault I screwed up. She shouldn't have to fix all my mistakes. Armed with the order book, a whiteout pen, and the correct, triple-checked dates, she retreats upstairs to try to fix the mess since I don't trust myself to do it. Ignoring my objections, she grabs some supplies for the gift baskets Lux ordered for a corporate retreat too, claiming she has nothing else to do anyway. But even with her help, my bottom lip quivers as I survey my list—I'msogoing to be here all night.

I can’t believe I did this. How did I do this? I’m careful, I’m always so freaking careful. I’ve been distracted lately, I know I have, but writing down dates wrong? Forgetting some orders entirely? That’s not like me. That’s… God, that’s sodisappointing.

Rubbing my chest like that’ll quell the ache brewing behind my ribcage, I rush to the store room to fish out what I need for the three anniversary bouquets due to be picked up in less than twenty-four hours. I hiss as roses—yet to be de-thorned, obviously, because it would be too easy otherwise—scratch mybare arms, but I persevere, so focused on picking out the perfect blooms, I almost miss the chime of the front door opening.

Yet another mistake on my part; the first thing I should’ve done is lock the damn door.

“We're closed,” I call out, hoping whoever's out there does me a favor and disappears quickly.

Bright side; when I emerge clutching a pile of flowers I can barely see over, it's not a customer I find.

It is, however, someone objectively worse.

Clearly, I did something terrible in a past life; that's the only explanation I can think of as to why Hunter freaking Whitlock has an uncanny ability of seeing me at my worst.

I don’t have the energy to be polite. I really don’t. I just want to get this done so I can climb into bed and bawl my freaking eyes out. “Go away, Hunter.”

Because Hunter has probably never done what he's told a day in his life, he goes nowhere. Instead, he frowns, those damn pretty eyes flicking around my face. “What's wrong?”

I say nothing, keeping my gaze downcast as I walk behind the counter and start meticulously checking petals for blemishes, figuring he’ll get the hint and leave.

Except he doesn't.

“Caroline,” he drawls my name low and slow, and for some reason, my eyes brim with tears. “What's wrong?”

I suck my bottom lip into my mouth to stop it from trembling. Despite my best efforts to keep a handle on myself, the roses go a little blurry as my vision clouds. “I messed up,” I whisper defeatedly. “I got some dates wrong and now we're really behind and Nova probably has to work overtime and I—” I cut myself off before I explain that I'll be stuck here for the foreseeable future. I shouldn’t complain. It’s my own fault; all because I’m incapable of doing one thing correctly.

“Can I help?”

My head jerks up. “What?”

Already rounding the counter to stand next to me, Hunter repeats, “Can I help?”

“You don't have to do that.”

“I want to.”

I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. I don’t like him offering help, how this is the second time he’s felt like he needed to in as many days. I don’t like that staring at him, all soft and concerned, makes me think of the other night. Makes the healing scrapes of my palms and knees itch. Makes my eyes well up even more as my own incompetence sucker-punches me in the gut. “I can do it myself.”

Hunter sighs—not frustrated, not annoyed, but something gentler. “I know you can.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“I didn't say you were.”

“I'm good at my job.”

“I know, Caroline.”

“It was an accident.”

A hand lands on my shoulder, and I buckle a little under the weight. My head falls forward, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop a couple of tears from escaping. Hunter notices, muttering my name again quietly, and I brush the wetness away with a weak laugh. “Sorry.”

Long fingers dig into my shoulder blade gently. “Do you ever stop apologizin’?”

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