More tears fight their way through. The sobs clustered at the back of my throat beg to break free, and I quickly start to lose control over them. When Hunter cups the back of my head, a quiet whimper escapes before I can choke it down. An incoherent syllable follows when he strokes a path down my hair, ending at the nape of my neck. Not quite a wail, but definitelysomethingburns my chest when suddenly, somehow,I’m cocooned by strong arms, my forehead hot against the cool, smooth skin of a thick neck.
He’s hugging me, it takes me a moment to dazedly recognize. Hunter is hugging me. Voluntarily. Heinitiatesit. And, as I tremble with the effort of not sinking pathetically into his embrace, he mutters, “You’re good, Caroline. You hear me?”
I do. Loud and clear, thick and gravelly, calming yet completely unnerving at the same time.
Something heavy rests on my head, and later, when I regain control of my facilities, I’ll realize it was a cheek. That a mouth brushes my temple. That that same mouth murmurs, “I got you, honey,” and that’s what breaks me.
And God, do I break.
With a quiet sob, I slump against the brawny chest I vaguely remember thinking would make a great pillow, confirming that theory as I thinkwhat the hell?and bury my face in it. I don’t have the damn wingspan to wrap my arms around his waist, so I settle for clutching at his hips, feeling the swell of his stomach tense as my fingertips curl around his belt loops.
He doesn’t let me go, though. A brusque exhale against the top of my head makes me shiver, and then his grip tightens—like he’s trying to suffocate my overwhelmed nervous system.
It works, after a while. After God knows how long. Long enough to scratch my throat raw, for my eyes to swell, until my pulse throbs against my temples. All the while, quiet, simple words of comfort are whispered in my ear, and I can’t tell if they help or hinder.
Ten more seconds,I promise myself, even as I run out of tears, too caught in the rare feeling of comfort to recognize I might be taking advantage of it.Then I’ll get back to work.
More than ten seconds pass.
I don’t think either of us are counting.
For such an enormous man—therefore an owner of enormous, chunky fingers—Hunter is surprisingly nimble.
I don't know why I'm surprised that he takes to everything I tell him to do so quickly. He seems like the kind of guy who can do anything with ease, and apparently, floristry is one of them.
We work in relative silence, which is a blessing and a curse. A blessing because there's no opportunity for me to say something and embarrass myself more than I already have. A curse because the silence leaves space for my thoughts to run wild, every single one of them intent on convincing me that I'm a failure. I'm upset and mortified and the more I think about it, the more I want to cry again.
At least we seem to be pretending the breakdown didn’t happen. When I finally managed to pull myself together, Hunter asked if I was okay, and I nodded. He told me he was going to help, no room for arguments even if I had the energy to conjure one up, so I told him what to do. And that was that. Moment over, and hopefully never to be discussed again—fine by me.
But thesilence. The freaking gaping silence. I—
“What's your favorite kind of order?”
I glance up at the man beside me, frowning. “What?”
“Orders,” he repeats casually without looking up from the stems I tasked him with de-thorning. “What do you like doin’? Weddings, anniversaries…”
I take a moment to respond, processing the question and coughing to clear my croaky, post-cry throat. “I like doing birthday orders.”
“Why?”
“Everyone should get flowers on their birthday.”
“You get flowers on your birthday?”
I laugh quietly. “No one sends a florist flowers.”
A quiet, thoughtful hum precedes another question. And then another, and another. Hunter fills the silence like that, asking me random questions and letting me ramble. I know why he's doing it—to keep me from freaking breaking down again—but still. I glow under the attention, no matter what the motive.
When he runs out of meaningless things to ask, the question that’s been niggling at the back of my mind since he turned up at the trailhead gets too loud to ignore. “Hunter?”
“Yeah?”
I hesitate for a moment, really considering my question, before quietly asking, “Are we friends?”
I sound like a child. A silly, sniveling child, but I have to ask. I can’t do the whole hot-and-cold thing. I can’t handle not knowing where I stand with him, feeling like I always have to be so careful. But when a solid minute passes without a response, I regret not keeping my mouth shut. “Never—”
“You’re mad at me.”