Chapter 9
9
Never before has worn, blue denim caught and held his attention so unrelentingly.
" Zia !"
A smile splitting my face, I step out from behind the counter just in time to catch Chiara’s small body as she crashes into me. I don’t hesitate to duck down and hug my pseudo-niece properly, dropping a kiss to the crown of her head. “I missed you.”
“I missed you more.”
Twining a perfect dark ringlet around my finger and tugging, I puff out a dramatic breath. “Impossible.”
“And who missed me?”
I roll my eyes at Aldo as he saunters into Bloom behind his daughter. “I see you every week.”
Smacking a kiss on each of my cheeks, he pats one gently. “Lucky girl.”
I bat his hand away with a snort. Keeping one eye on Chiara as she bounces towards the floral arrangements decorating the wall, I return to my spot behind the counter so I can tuck the order book beneath it. I’ll finish sorting through it later; the organizational side of the job isn’t exactly my forte, and with Aldo and Chiara’s presence messing with my concentration, I know I’ll mess something up. “What’re you guys doing here?”
“We can’t visit our favorite little florist?”
I squint at Aldo’s wide-eyed innocence warily.
He sighs, dropping the act in favor of a slick smirk. “My cousin is in town. The one I told you about. Handsome, a—”
“A good boy whose mother raised him well and who happens to be single?” I finish for him dryly. “I remember.”
A mischievous glint twinkles in his eyes. “I showed him a picture of you.”
“Aldo!”
“He thinks you're very pretty.”
My knee-jerk instinct to instantly shoot him down ebbs ever so slightly. Dog, meet bone . “Really?”
“Would I lie to you?”
“To get me to go out with your cousin?” I deadpan. “Absolutely. I don’t want to go out with a stranger, Aldo.”
“ Stranger .” He scoffs. “He's my cousin.”
I huff at his logic.
“ Zia ,” Chiara calls for my attention, shaking the handful of lilies clutched between her fingers. “Can I have these?”
Trying not to wince at the crushed stems, I nod. “Course you can. Want some ribbon?”
“Orange, please.”
Crouching behind the counter, I rummage amongst the shelves in search of Chiara’s request, grateful for the break it gives me from her father. Not that he actually gives me a break; that would be far too easy.
“Just let me give you his number,” he begs, undeterred by my disinterest, nor the signature ringing toll of the bell above the front door announcing someone else’s arrival. “End the dry spell, bella .”
A retort—or rather, some flustered spluttering—at the ready, I snag the bright orange spool I’m looking for and get to my feet, only to drop the ribbon and wish I could hit the floor along with it.
“Hunter.” I choke on his name, mentally calculating how long ago I heard the bell above the door chime, and how much he might’ve heard. “Hello.”
I brace for his response, whatever that may be. Things have been… weird since our hike. Not weird in the awkward sense—although I definitely catch myself cringing whenever I remember our little misunderstanding —but because he’s been pleasant towards me, and I don’t know what to do with that. Turns out, him tolerating my presence is far more rattling than him outwardly disliking it.
It's not like he's showering me with unrelenting friendship or anything. But he's been different. He greets me properly instead of grunting. He thanks me instead of grunting. He takes the help I offer without grunting, and he even offers help in return—a couple of days ago, when I insisted on doing night check during dinner because I was trying to avoid Jackson, Hunter joined me. Granted, I suspect it was because he didn’t think I knew what I was doing, but still. He was there. Not completely silent or outwardly resenting my presence.
God, my standards are so low.
So damn low that when he tips his head in greeting and murmurs, “Mornin’,” something warm blossoms in my chest.
Not even attempting to play it cool, Aldo whips to face the door. Whatever checking out of Hunter I might’ve done is nothing compared to the slow, appreciative drag of my friend’s eyes down the length of the giant cowboy. “Lina, who’s your friend?”
Fighting a wince, I make the introductions quickly.
“ Ah .” Aldo hums. “The ranch man.”
“Is he your boyfriend?”
I choke out an emphatic refusal as fast as my mouth will let me. Keeping my gaze firmly fixed on the inquisitive ten-year-old and not the smirking Italian or the undoubtedly frowning cowboy, I almost correct Chiara by introducing Hunter as my friend. But I’m not sure we are friends, and I learned my lesson about assuming those kinds of things.
Luckily, Chiara moves on quickly. “You’re big,” she states bluntly, and her father snickers. “How tall are you?”
Hunter shifts, and I can’t tell whether it’s the question that’s made him uncomfortable, or the young, curious tone that implies it won’t be the last. “Six-foot-six.”
“Woah.”
Woah, indeed. Guess my ‘he definitely has a whole foot on me’ hypothesis wasn’t that far off.
“Are you a cowboy?”
Hunter shrugs and mumbles, “I guess,” at the same time Aldo leans towards me.
“ Boy isn’t the word that comes to mind,” he whispers—freaking barely . “I wouldn’t want my cousin’s number either.”
I pinch his forearm in a silent plea to shut up.
“So you have horses?”
“They’re not my horses,” Hunter clarifies, but Chiara doesn’t care—horses are horses, and she is a well-educated little girl; of course Spirit is her favorite movie.
“Can I see them?”
When Hunter shifts his gaze to Aldo, Chiara pounces on her father. “Can I, papa ? Please?”
“I don’t know, bambina .” Stroking his daughter’s hair, Aldo shoots me a look. “Ask your zia .”
“ Please , Lina.”
If there’s a person alive capable of saying no to big, brown, pleading eyes, it certainly isn’t me. “I’ll ask Lux, okay?”
Her excited squeal echoes around the store. “Today?”
Aldo pats her head, muttering something I don’t catch. Not because it’s in a language I don’t speak, but because the man sidling up to the counter, sliding a piece of paper across it, distracts me. “Just came to drop this off.”
Right. The list of upcoming orders for the ranch; a list I always get about halfway through the month detailing what Lux needs for the month following. Usually, she’s the one to drop it off.
I ask about it. Make a light, joking comment about Hunter drawing the short straw, getting stuck with the crap job, having to come all the way out here to hand over a list Lux easily could’ve texted me.
In that gruff, no-nonsense voice, Hunter says, “I volunteered,” before waltzing out the door.
There's music coming from the barn.
As I get closer, I recognize the song, and I smile. My mom loved this song. It was on the playlist she played every Sunday morning while we made breakfast together, the soundtrack of some of my most distinct memories of her—the two of us, side by side, ladling pancake batter onto a sizzling pan or cutting fruit or frying bacon, belting out the lyrics. Dad would come crashing into the room, ears covered, cracking a joke about dying cats, and we would all laugh and hug, and everything was good .
I haven’t listened to that playlist in a long time. I can’t remember the last time my dad laughed. As for things being good, well, I’m getting there. I’m trying.
Quietly as I can, I peer around the edge of the ajar barn doors, curious to know who’s humming along to Nina Simone. The culprit is… surprising, to say the least.
Hunter has his back to me as he brushes down a black Shire—the newest addition to the ranch. Even larger than the Clydesdale in the next stall over, the mare is so big, she makes Hunter look regular-sized. She might match him for temperament too; while she begrudgingly huffs her contentment as he meticulously runs a wire brush across her flank, she nudges her nose against his hip impatiently, the equine command to hurry up.
Talk about a match made in heaven.
A colossal, muscled match.
“You need somethin’?”
My cheeks flame as Hunter glances over his shoulder, interrupting my perusal. “Uh, no.”
Believe it or not, I didn’t come here with the intention of ogling Hunter. My real target is the pretty dappled mare tucked away in one of the back stalls. Aster showed up on the ranch around the same time I did, and while she never got the official title, I always thought of her as mine. Sweet old thing that she is, I figured she’d be the perfect beginner horse for Chiara to try out during her long-awaited visit—and by long, I mean she had to suffer through about forty-eight horseless hours.
“Hi, pretty girl,” I coo as I approach Aster. “Did you miss me?”
I take her whinny as an emphatic yes.
Giving her neck a firm, affectionate pat, I head towards the corner nook where the riding equipment is kept. Hoisting what I need to get Aster ready for Chiara’s imminent arrival over my shoulder, I struggle my way back to the stall.
God, I forgot how heavy saddles are. My shoulder aches under the weight, my arms straining with the effort of sliding it onto Aster's back. Out of my peripheral, I notice Hunter moving towards me, a hand outstretched like he’s going to help, but I wave him off.
I’m not entirely useless; I didn’t spend all those years hanging around this place without learning how to saddle a freaking horse. I might be a little out of practice, but I know I can get it done. And I do.
Eventually.
Stepping back with my hands on my hips, I survey my work proudly. I knew I still had it in me. Muscle memory, and all that. Raising my brows, I glance at Hunter with a bit of a 'ha ha' look that dissolves into a frown when I find him not looking at me.
Or rather, not looking at my face.
I glance down at the outfit drawing his rapt attention; a pair of jeans—because as much as I wish I could, I can’t ride a horse in a sundress—a tank top, and Western-style boots that’ve been collecting dust in the back of my closet for the past few years. “What?”
Hunter’s gaze flicks up to meet mine before returning to the black, equine coat beneath his palms. “Nothing.”
Was he…
Nope. You’re delusional, Caroline.
“Have you named her yet?” I ask, gesturing to his new friend.
“I've got some ideas.”
Leading Aster by her halter, I approach the giants slowly, careful not to spook either of them. I hold my hand out palm-up, letting the mare sniff my hand, waiting until she’s deemed me safe before stroking her neck. “Like what?”
Hunter only hesitates for a handful of seconds, and I consider that monumental progress. “I like Gaia.”
So do I. “What else?”
“Hera.”
The corners of my mouth twitch; I'm sensing a theme. “Or?”
Another pause, and the definite burn of eyes watching me. “Athena.”
“Big fan of Greek mythology?”
Hunter says nothing. When I glance aside, I find him looking almost bashful. “I like Gaia,” I muse. “If my opinion means anything.”
Which it probably doesn't, but Gaia-Hera-Athena seems to agree because she snorts loudly and headbutts my shoulder.
I swear Hunter’s arm knocks against mine in what could definitely be considered a playful gesture. “Me too.”
Craning my neck to beam up at him, I watch his lips part as though he’s about to say something else, but Aster whinnying quietly interrupts him. He glances over his shoulder, whistling a greeting at the old mare. “You takin’ her for a ride?”
“I was gonna warm her up a little before Chiara gets here.”
“You know how?”
“I dated Jackson for four years. Of course I know how to ride a horse.”
That's practically a requirement around here. He probably would've broken up with me a lot sooner if I'd never made the effort to learn.
Hunter's head whips towards me. “You and Oscar?”
He didn’t know? I assumed he did. The only thing a small town loves more than churning out fresh gossip is rehashing five-year-old gossip; I find it hard to believe he made it through a single week here without someone bringing it up. “Yup.”
He looks surprised. Really surprised. A crease appears between his brows, a thoughtful purse to his mouth. “Huh.”
I scan his expression warily, something about it making my chest hurt. “What?”
“Can't picture it.”
“Why not?”
Hunter shrugs, and a nauseating sense of self-consciousness writhes beneath my skin. Dropping my gaze, I stare at the white star marking between Gaia’s eyes. “I don't seem like his type?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hunter’s head jerk—a nod?—and the nausea expands.
I get it, I guess. I’m the complete opposite of Luna. I’m not outrageously beautiful like her, not funny like her, not confident or strong or larger-than-life like her. I’m… plain. Plain dark blonde hair. Plain brown eyes. Plain personality.
My hands shake as I check and recheck Aster's saddle. I couldn’t keep a smile on my face if I tried, so I dip my head, using my hair as a shield. I don’t look at Hunter, despite the fact I can feel him looking at me, as I slip one foot into the stirrup, testing my weight before hauling myself up.
I quickly learn that muscle memory only goes so far. Mid-air, it fails me, and I wobble and flail as I try to regain my balance. Just when I think I might fall, two hands steady me. One on my thigh, the other on my waist, both of them burning hot and gripping firmly. Both guide me into the saddle, neither letting go until I’m safely seated, and I don’t fully process that they were there until they’re gone.
The second they are, my brain catches up with reality, and I'm left flustered and red. Muttering a thank you, I grip the reins tight enough to turn my knuckles white and dig my heels into Aster’s side, urging her out of the barn.
Hunter follows alongside us. “Caroline?”
I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I might cry if I look at him, and I’m already embarrassed enough.
I pretend I don’t hear him, too focused on arranging Aster’s reins, checking my feet are in the stirrups right, shifting until I’m comfortable.
And, when I ease into a trot, then a canter, if I really do hear him call my name again, if it’s not just a trick of my mind and the wind, I pretend I don’t hear that either.