Page 53 of Bloom

He likes red roses, spicy lemonade, and flushed cheeks.

He hates Italy.

Market days are usuallya solo affair for me.

Today, though, there’s a new development. A six-foot-six development with a Southern accent and custom-made size fourteen cowboy boots, cramped in the passenger seat of my truck.

I don’t think I mind Hunter tagging along. IknowI don’t mind his presence; I never do. But the closer we get, the more my nerves grow, and with nerves comes the dreaded overthinking. By the time the familiar, colorful stalls come into view, it’s a miracle I haven’t crashed with how much I’m squirming, my body as antsy as my mind, my fingers tapping the steering wheel as my teeth bite into my bottom lip.

What if he hates it? What if he’s bored? What if he thinks how focused I get is weird? I do get abnormally caught up in sifting through the flowers, sniffing each one and eyeballing them from all angles, holding them up in natural light so I can see the realcolors while interrogating and haggling with the sellers. Come to think of it,obsessivemight be a more accurate descriptor. Or, you know,unhingedprobably works too.

“You okay?”

Briefly meeting Hunter’s gaze, I force what I hope is a passable smile and nod.

He glances skeptically between my tapping fingers and my poor stinging lip. “You’re nervous.”

“Nope,” I deny with an easy, breezy laugh—not. “I’m just excited.”

He still doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press the matter. He keeps on looking at me, though. Looking and looking and looking so intently, it takes me twice as long as it should to park. “You’ve got a staring problem, you know.”

“You’ve got a lyin’ problem.”

An offended noise parts my lips. “I’m notlying.”

“No?” Hunter shifts to face me, one hand braced against the dashboard while the other grips the back of my seat, somethingchallengingabout the way he leans forward. “Tell me why you’re nervous.”

I cluck my tongue in frustration—why can’t he be like everyone else and just let me be? “If you wanna leave or something, just tell me and we can go, okay? I won’t mind.”

The leather seat squeaks as Hunter relaxes, his back hitting the door behind him. “Ah.”

“What?”

“A people pleasin’ problem,” he corrects himself. “That’s what you have.”

Denial brews only to promptly die, defense replacing it. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make other people happy.”

“Depends on how you’re doin’ it.”

“And how am I doing it?”

Head falling to one side, Hunter says nothing. He just freakingstares, like he’s trying to telepathically share the answer.

Or wear me down until I admit I already know exactly what he means.

By the time he looks away, I’m sweating. I breathe a tiny sigh of relief when he grips the door handle and shoulders it open. “C'mon. Show me what's so exciting about this place.”

None of the usual warm and fuzzy feelings of comfort hit me when I lay eyes on Aldo’s booth, not even when I spot a bunch of blue daisies—as beautiful as they are rare—peeking out from their hiding spot beneath the stall.

He and the unfamiliar, admittedly handsome guy beside him might only be cousins, but they could easily pass for brothers.

“Lina,” myformerfriend coos the nickname I cherished dearly up until about three seconds ago—up until his cousin repeats it knowingly, and his richly accented voice makes me flush. “This is my cousin, Roberto. Roberto,” Aldo claps a hand against his cousin’s shoulders, “This is Caroline. The woman I told you about.”

Garden shears—that’s what I’ll use to kill him.

Heat creeps up my neck when instead of simply shaking the hand I mutely extend towards him, Roberto uses it to yank me forward and greet me with a kiss on either cheek. No different to how Aldo usually greets me yet somehow a million times more intimate. “You were right, Al.” Full lips curve into a smile that’s nothing short of seductive. “Sheisbeautiful.”

Sheesh. Four years with nothing to show for and now, suddenly, I have accented men dropping from the sky calling me beautiful. What the hell?

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