Page 63 of Bloom

I don’t get the chance to insist I have to because suddenly, the subject swings to proof of Jackson ‘moving on.’ Luna, and how beautiful she is. How funny she is. How she’s the love ofhis life and so perfect for him, and they couldn’t imagine him with anyone else. All these little things that I already know yet when stated so flippantly, so pointedly, they slice fresh wounds, chipping away at me until I’m one comment away from banging my head against the table.

Maybe if I hit it hard enough, I’ll knock this entire afternoon right out of my brain.

So focused on tuning out the conversation that’s suddenly become about how wonderful Luna is, and implying how terrible I am, I don’t notice something approaching. I don’t notice silence settling. I don’t notice a shadow falling over our table until a hand lands on my shoulder and makes me jump.

I freeze when I recognize the blunt fingernails, the constellation of freckles speckling the curve of a thick thumb, the calloused fingers splayed so widely, they touch from the slope of my neck to the end of my collarbone.

“Line,” that familiar, gruff voice murmurs, and I swear my heart stops beating.

Slowly, so very slowly, I look up, knowing exactly who I’m going to find yet somehow still surprised. Hazel eyes stare into my freaking soul, so intense they make something in my gut curl.

“You forget about me, honey?”

I wonder if my malfunction is a visible thing. If Rochelle, Carly, and Hunter can see my brain short-circuiting—if they can tell my lungs are struggling with basic function too.

It takes a long, embarrassing moment before I realize what’s happening.

He’s saving my ass.

Saving my pathetic, lonely, pining ass.

“Oh.” I put whatever acting skills I possess to work, eyes wide with false apology. “I’m so sorry. I must’ve lost track of time.”

I don’t think about it, I just get up, so hastily I almost knock my chair over, and I throw myself at Hunter. I plaster myself tohis side and take his hand in mine. I don’t give myself time—I don’t have the mental capacity—to doubt my actions, but when he freezes, I start to worry I’ve done the wrong thing. That he’ll freak out at me touching him and run away like he did at the wedding, leaving me embarrassed and even more pathetic than I was before in the eyes of my friends.

Don’t.

Please, please, please don’t.

Tears threaten to fall when Hunter flexes his hand, shaking me off. I redden with embarrassment, but soon, my skin flushes for different reasons—because of the thick arm sneaking around my waist, the fingers curling resting dangerously low on my hip. His other arm, the one farthest from me, reaches across himself to take my hand, the one closest to him. He lifts it in the air. Up and up and up until his mouth is pressing against my knuckles, lingering there, mouthing against them, “Let’s go.”

I blink vacantly.Go?

Right. We’re not alone. We have an audience—an audience who gawks at us like they can’t believe what they’re seeing almost as much as I can’t believe it’s happening.

I only get a second to revel in the looks on their faces. I don’t get a chance to say anything, nor to say goodbye; I barely have time to grab my purse before he’s hauling me towards the exit. The second my feet land on the sidewalk outside Bishop's, I step out of Hunter's grip, putting some healthy distance between us before my head freaking explodes. “Sorry,” I mumble as I wrap my arms around myself once again, willing the heat emanating from my hip to go away.

He doesn't reply. The smirk on his face drops, replaced by impassivity as he strides towards his truck. For reasons unknown to me, I follow. When he climbs in, I do too. The click of his seatbelt is echoed by mine, by my quiet voice too, saying, “Thank you for that,” as he starts the engine.

Hunter's lips press into a straight line. His knuckles turn white as he tries to strangle the steering wheel. “You let everyone talk to you like that?”

The anger in his voice catches me so off guard, I don’t quite manage to stifle a flinch. “Excuse me?”

A muscle in his jaw jumps, every inch of his body as tense as his tone. “They were rippin’ into you and you were just sittin’ there, fuckin’ takin’ it.”

“They weren't—”

“I could hear them, Caroline.”

Great. Because I really needed something else to be embarrassed about.

“So, what?” I swallow down the lump in my throat, forcing a brave face. “You stepped in to be some kind of knight in shining armor?”

His head swings towards me, and I recoil at theapathyon his face. “I stepped in because watchin’ that was fuckin’ embarrassin’.”

It’s instant, how his words manage to coax tears to my eyes. My hands curl into tight fists, my nails biting into my palms, and I focus on that sting instead of the ache in my chest. “That was mean.”

He looks away. “It was the truth.”

---