Page 77 of Bloom

The top button of his jeans is open. Navy material peeks through the unzipped fly. Unbelted jeans ride low, andCalvin Kleinscreams at me in white block letters.

Shooting upright, I drag a hand across my mouth, wiping away drool that hopefully doesn’t exist. “What did you say?”

“What happened?” Hunter repeats, and the words have meaning this time. The hand closest to me rises, brushing my lower back. “I wanna know what happened last night.”

Maybe it’s because I’m tired. Maybe it’s because I feel so fragile—mentally, emotionally, physically, all of the above. Maybe I’m just so, so sick of lying. No matter the cause, I still find myself mumbling, “We fought.”

“Why?”

It’s just a question, not an accusation, yet my spine stiffens anyway. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I know, honey.” The bed creaks as Hunter shifts, the inches between us diminishing. “He was drunk?”

Belligerentseems a more accurate description. “Uh-huh.”

“He get drunk a lot?”

I pull my knees up to my chest, shrugging, not strong enough to verbalize the truth.

A loud inhale. A louder exhale. Fingers on my bare skin, sneaking beneath my shirt, following the curve of my spine—soothing. “He hurt you a lot?”

“No.” Not physically, at least. And purposely, never. Not until last night.

What the hell went so wrong last night?

“I, uh, pissed him off.”You didn’t raise me at all.That’s what I said. If I’d kept my mouth shut, it would’ve been fine. So maybe I did do something after all. “He grabbed me.” My chin burns, my knees ache, my scalp stings. “Yelled a little.” All the horrible things he said didn't quite register in the moment, but they do now—bitchwas the loudest.Dumb, worthless bitch. “And then I left.”

And then I jumped from a second-story window and ran all the way to Bishop’s, where I proceeded to get drunk for the first time in my life—todrinkfor the first time in my life—and embarrass myself in front of God knows how many people, including Hunter.

I leftis a lot simpler to spit out. And ifI leftearns the ire suddenly flushing that golden, freckled complexion, I can’t imagine what the longer version would incite.

Herc yips in protest as Hunter sits up. Shooting evil puppy eyes at the man responsible for ruining his snooze, he relocates to the foot of my bed. I watch him curl into a ball and resume his nap, but all the self control in the world couldn’t keep my attention on him when a palm cups the back of my neck and eases my head sideways.

Through gritted teeth, Hunter asks, “Does anyone know? About the drinking?”

“No.” I neglect to mention that Tommy might suspect; my gut tells me bringing him up wouldn’t be wise. But, that I know of, there’s no one else. Sometimes, I wonder if there are suspicions, if any rumors have circulated over the years, but I think I would’ve heard them. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

“I would never.” Hunter frowns. “But I think you should.”

The sentence is barely out before I’m shaking my head. I know what he means. I know what he thinks I should do, who he thinks I should tell. But he doesn’t know that Haven Ridge’s sheriff is my dad’s drinking buddy. That he’s gambled his wage away in my living room more than once. That one time, he laughed alongside everyone else when I cut my foot on shards of a broken beer bottle and started crying.

No. I can’t run to the police. But I can quietly remind Hunter that, “I did tell someone.”

I’ve never quite gotten the full scope of what it means for someone tosoftenuntil this moment. Until I watch the tension bleed out of Hunter and it’s such a visceral, tangible thing, easing every taut muscle and smoothing the harsh lines of his pinched expression and blowing out his pupils. “Yeah,” he rasps. “Guess you did.”

When his mouth opens again, “I should go,” isn’t quite what I’m expecting to hear, but I temper my disappointment. I swallow my initial reaction—an emphaticno—and offer a weak nod instead.

Blink-and-you’ll-miss it quick, Hunter kisses my forehead before swinging his legs over the side of the bed, already on the other side of the room by the time I've processed his lips brushing my skin. “Lock up behind me, yeah?”

“Right.” I scramble off the bed and almost trip over my own feet following him downstairs. “Thank you for everything.”

Scanning me as critically as he did my apartment, Hunter hesitantly cups the crown of my head. “You sure you’re okay?”

My nod is weak, at best.

Hunter sighs. The tiniest bit of pressure is all it takes for me to move readily, walking into arms that wrap around me tightly. Cheek flush against his sternum, I thank him again, the words as muffled as his responding grunt.

Gripping the same brown locks his face is buried in, he gently tugs until I lean back enough to see a strained… smile? Something close to one, but not quite. “You gotta stop thanking me, honey.”

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