Page 44 of Bloom

“He’s just messing with me,” I cut him off. “Are y’all done for the day?”

When a chorus of groans answer that question, I bump my hip against Lux’s, interrupting her as she rummages through the upper cabinets for something. “I can cook tonight.”

“Nah.” Successfully locating whatever she’s hunting for, I grimace when I recognize the jar in her grasp. However, I know better than to argue, so when she unscrews the lid and the godawful aroma of the garlic-based poultice she’s been smearing on cuts and scrapes for as long as I can remember, I hold out my hands obediently, palms up. “The boys are gonna throw some meat on the grill.”

Another round of groans makes me laugh. “How’d you convince them to do that?”

“Sheer charm of course.” Lux shoots me a toothy grin as she peels off my BandAids, tutting at the healing skin beneath them. “And I promised them we could take a half-day tomorrow and head to the creek. You wanna come?”

“Really?” I’ve never been to the creek before—another Jackson family ritual I never managed to wiggle my way into.

“Uh-huh.” As she cradles one of my hands and smears a mixture of crushed garlic, honey, and who knows what else on my palms, her thumb digs into my wrist. “Even Hunter’s coming.”

My stomach does a weird flip that I choose to ignore. “Good for him.”

“He'll be there all naked and wet and glistening…”

Briefly, I wonder how painful it would be for a girl to get raw garlic in her eye.

No one else notices Hunter sneaking away the moment we sit down to eat. Just like no one notices me doing the same thing half an hour later—except for Lux, of course. Somehow, I just know it’s her gaze burning a hole in my back as I walk away from the group of laughing people sprawled across the porch and slip inside the barn.

“Hey,” I call out softly. Hunter glances my way, brows rising in surprise, eyes darting between me and the full plate of food I brandish. “Hungry?”

Something in my chest squeezes when his lips stretch into a smile. Arealsmile. A really good smile—that sweet, boyish smile I like so much. Rinsing his hands first, he turns off and puts away the hose used to refill the horses’ water troughs, and I follow him into the back room that serves as Lux’s office. Not that she ever uses it; despite the huge table and comfortable chair, she much prefers the tiny desk in her room flooded with papers and documents, stained with coffee rings and pen marks.Organized chaos, she calls it.

The prelude of a migraine, I prefer.

Taking the plate from my hands, Hunter sits behind the desk and digs in, while I dither in the doorway, contemplating whether or not I should stay. I should, right? Eating alone is kind of sad. And if he wanted me to leave, God knows he would tell me.

Watching him carefully, I move closer. Hesitantly, I walk around to the side of the desk, perching on the edge, searching for any signs of irritation. When I find none—when that mouth stays curved upward—I relax. Crossing my legs at the ankles, I let them swing, folding my hands in my lap, and I stay.

Pausing his feast, Hunter eyes my hands. “How are they?”

“All better.” If all better means itchy, scabby, and garlicky. “Food okay? I wasn’t sure what you liked so I just grabbed a bit of everything.”

He raises the plate laden with steak, lemon-garlic chicken thighs, grilled vegetables, and a buttery baked potato the size of his fist. “This is good.”

“I can get you more, if you want. And there’s pie. Peach. You want some?”

Something faintly amused tugs at the corner of Hunter’s mouth. “This a diner, Caroline? You work here now?”

I look down, shrugging. “I guess I’m trying to thank you,” I stutter nervously, “for the other day. For helping me.”

The sound of chewing fades away. I hear him swallow, then the thud of him setting down his plate followed by the creak of his chair, and I glance aside to find him slumped, legs spread wide, hands braced on his thighs. “No need.”

He’s wearing a belt buckle. An old one—vintage, if I had to guess—with the outline of a longhorn stamped on the face and a raised edge in the pattern of a rope. I stare at it for five seconds too long before I realize I’m essentially staring at his crotch and shift my gaze back to my own lap.

His knee brushes the back of my calf, jeans rough against my bare skin. “I did good, yeah?”

I smile, remembering those chunky but nimble fingersalmostexpertly helping me arrange bouquet after bouquet. “You did alright.”

Another gentle nudge, and alaugh. An under-the-breath, slightly snarky chuckle, but a laugh all the same. He leaves his knee there, tucked beneath the back of mine, and its presence is what makes me realize how close the rest of him is. Leaned forward with his elbows braced against his knees, he’s almost eye-level. Andsmiling.

Andrattling.

“Why don’t you think I’m Jackson’s type?”

I regret the question the second it leaves my mouth; I never meant it to. It just came out. Morbid curiosity briefly took over, but its coup is fleeting.

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