Page 62 of Bloom

“Wow.” Sliding Rochelle an impressed look, Carly pats my arm—goodbye,pity;hello, condescension.“Go you.”

Propping her chin in her hand, Rochelle flutters her lashes at me. “How was it?”

And there it is. The fault with bringing up Tommy; I can’t lie. “We haven’t gone out yet.”

Their grins disappear instantly.

“Line.” It's almost reprimanding, the way Rochelle addresses me. “You haven't dated anyone since Jackson.”

I repeat; no way!“I know.”

“It's kind of…” My friends—in my head, a question mark follows that word—exchange a wary glance. “Weird.”

“Like you're still in love with him or something,” Carly finishes Rochelle's thought, and if I wasn’t hating my life two minutes ago, I'm definitely hating it now.

“I'm not,” I reassure them quickly, weakly, so damn sick of having to constantly confirm my lack of feelings for my ex-boyfriend, so tired of people acting like my entire life still revolves around him. “I just haven't met anyone yet.”

The pitying tilt of their heads makes me feel about two-feet-tall. Instantly, all the effort I made this morning to feel good is erased. My prettiest dress, my nicest sandals—with a heel and everything, for God’s sake. I washed my hair, curled it too, left it down and unbraided even though I hate the feeling of it sticking to my skin in the late July heat as. I’m wearingmake-up. I can't remember the last time I wore make-up.

Yet I did it for them because I wanted to feel pretty, I wanted to look pretty, I didn’t want to look like I spend my entire life working and covered in dirt andtired, but it doesn’t even matter. They’re still pouting at me like I’m poor little loveless,hopelessCaroline.

“Who’s that?”

For a moment, I’m grateful for their flighty attention span, and for whoever managed to catch it. I twist, ready to silently worship whoever managed to steal the spotlight away from me. But then, I groan. Loudly. Too loud, but deserved, I think.

The twisted, funny-to-anyone-but-me kismet that is Hunter Whitlock being in Bishop’s right nowsodeserves a groan.

Whipping around before he sees me, I slump in my seat. “That’s Hunter.”

“You know him?”

The surprise in Rochelle’s voice makes me stiffen.You?It screams.Caroline knows a man like that? Impossible!It makes me want to prove how much I know him, how we hike togetherand his favorite color is red and he’s called mehoneya handful of times, and that last night, at the wedding, we danced.

I don’t, obviously. I keep my mouth firmly shut because, really, would they believe me? Or would they call him over and demand proof, thus condemning me to death by mortification?

Wrapping my arms around myself, I make myself as small as possible and pray Hunter isn’t as perceptive to my presence as I am to his. “Kinda. He’s the new ranch hand on Serenity.”

“Ah.” Both girls nod, some sense of understanding blossoming. “Not a candidate then,” Carly laments. “Shame.”

I bristle. “Why do you say that?”

“He works for the Jacksons,” she explains—as if that’s any kind of explanation. When I blink at her, still clueless, it’s Rochelle who adds, “They’ve probably told him all about you.”

All about me. Like I was some unhinged, hazardous presence in their life. Like I did anything other than love one of them.

Am I missing something? Did I black out and murder the long-lost sixth Jackson sibling? Did I burn their house down? What did I do, what thehelldid I do, to brand myself with a freaking scarlet letter?

“Actually,” I find myself saying, my voice thick with anger I scarcely recognize. “Lux and I are friends.”

A pair of matching doubtful expressions make me want to scream.

“Caroline…”

Great. Now they’re usingthe tone. That freaking tone, the one everyone uses around me when the Jacksons are mentioned, all condescension and pity and false concern.

“You gotta let it go.”

“He's moved on. You need to as well.”

---