Page 46 of Bloom

Hunter snorts, but he does as I say. Cautiously, he crouches on his haunches, angling himself ever-so-slightly in front of me. My stomach clenches when a hand coasts along the middle of my back, fisting a handful of my dress—like he’s prepared to yank me away at the first sign of danger. Torn between swooning and rolling my eyes, I focus on the task at hand.

Slowly, the little mama stands, displacing the puppies crawling all over her. She inches closer, sniffing furiously, never once taking her eyes off us as she nibbles on what must be her first meal in weeks. In place of the squeal that catches in my throat, I tap Hunter’s thigh excitedly.

The puppies must be bolstered by their mom's confidence because they leave their little corner, waddling towards us. I count five of them, all with mottled, curly fur and light eyes. They're all small, but one is exceptionally so. The runt, I guess.

Small but brave—while his siblings approach us somewhat cautiously, he bounds right on over. Yipping excitedly, he eagerly sniffs my fingers when I stretch them out towards him, tongue lolling when I scratch behind his floppy ear, butt wiggling happily, and I think, right then and there, I fall in love.

The other four, they chose Hunter as their target. One sniffs his shoes, another nibbles on his jeans, and third goes right for the toe of his left boot. The fourth goes right for the big guns; it paws at his leg, trying its hardest to scale that mountainous thigh.

As smoothly as a man his size can manage, Hunter shifts to sit on his butt. Treating it like it’s made of glass, he wraps his fingers around the puppy’s middle and lifts. I press my lips together when he sets it on his thigh and it immediately flops onto its belly, its eyes drifting shut.

“Careful,” I snicker mockingly, gasping when his free hand jabs my ribs. “They’ve gotta be strays, right?”

Hunter nods, staring at the small thing on his lap with a kind of fascinated wonder that makes me want to pinch his freaking cheeks.

“Do you think—”

“Line? You in here?”

Yelps echo around the room as all six dogs startled simultaneously. They scuttle back into their corner, and Hunter and I scramble to our feet just in time for Lux to wander into the office. She freezes as she takes in the scene before her, blinking rapidly as her gaze bounces between us and the horde of dogs.

Dropping her head back, she groans. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

14

“You’ve got that look on your face,” his momma accuses suspiciously during one of their weekly calls. “Who is she?”

The morning after puppygate,I incessantly yawn over a cup of black coffee and try to rub away the crick in my neck gained from sleeping at a freaking right angle all night.

Not that I slept that much.

It took some coaxing and a lot of food-related bribery, but eventually, Hunter and I managed to get the mom dog—so creatively nicknamed Mama—out of the barn and into the house. With Lux's permission, she and her puppies slept in the laundry room on a makeshift bed of old clothes—likely the warmest, safest, coziest night of sleep they’ve ever had.

In stark contrast, I spent the night hunched over the kitchen table, dozing and regretting volunteering to watch them. I only did it because Eliza was trying to convince Lux to let her stay up with them, and Lux was worried the puppies might be sick or something and they'd take a turn for the worse and it would freak Eliza out, so I offered myself up as the sacrifice.

And I wasn’t the only one.

When everyone else got their fill of adorable puppies and went to bed last night, I expected Hunter to do the same. Instead, he flicked on the kettle, made us both a cup of tea, and plopped down on the kitchen floor with that same puppy from the barn curled up on his lap. Half the reason I barely got any sleep was because I was so freaking aware of the unignorable man in my vicinity, too self-conscious to doze off. Although, I must’ve at some point because I woke up to the sound of birds chirping, a pillow tucked beneath my head, the dogs' makeshift food bowls full, and my sleepover buddy nowhere in sight.

Sipping my third caffeine hit, I absentmindedly stroke the puppy on my lap—the runt of the litter, and the cutest of the bunch, in my opinion, with his fluffy black-and-brown dappled body and the white sock-like markings on his tiny paws. I think I really love him, and I think he might love me too. At the very least, he loves sinking his surprisingly sharp teeth into my fingers.

“You should keep him.”

I glance at Lux where she leans against the counter, smirking at me over the rim of her mug. “You know I can’t.”

There’s no room at my place for a dog, even one as small as this little guy. Herc, I’ve been calling him—short for Hercules. It’s silly, but it makes me laugh, though I’m begrudgingly aware that naming him is only setting myself up for heartbreak. That doesn’t stop me from cuddling him close, and it’s a good thing I do because when the front door swings open, he starts wriggling like he’s plotting an escape.

When I see who’s walking inside, I can’t say I don’t share the sentiment.

Flicking her red locks over her shoulder, Lottie regards me with the usual amount of disdain. But, because apparently even Satan herself has a soft spot for puppies, her gaze softens when itlands on the little furballs squirming on the kitchen floor. “They okay?”

“Uh-huh,” Lux confirms, looking amused at her sister's rare display of an emotion other than anger. “Just a little skinny.”

A grunt of acknowledgment makes me wonder if Lottie’s been hanging around Hunter too much.

One of the puppies scuttle towards her, the white patch on its butt marking it as the girl we’ve affectionately nicknamed Grouch. She doesn't like cuddles or affection, she's the whiniest of the bunch, and she loves to bite—her sharp little teeth nipped a chunk out of Hunter’s thumb when he carried her inside last night.

Naturally, the little demon has a thing for Lottie.

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