Chapter 12
12
There’s a lot of work to do around the ranch.
Yet he spends most of his day thinking about bright pink BandAids.
The smell of beer and pretzels greets me as I shove open the door to Bishop’s.
I would’ve preferred not to return a mere forty-eight hours after scraping my dad off the pavement outside, but Tommy called. Let me know that along with his dignity, my dad left his wallet here. And because I’m a spineless wimp who can’t say no, I came to get it.
Head down, I walk quickly to the bar, ready to get this over with; I’ve had a really, really bad couple of days, and I’m not in the mood to pretend I haven’t. Behind the counter, there’s a guy polishing glasses, and when he sees me, he smiles, one hand lifting in a wave. “Hey, Line.”
“Hi, Tommy.” I remember him now; he was one of Jackson’s teammates. I remember him always being nice to me. I remember my friends thinking he was hot. I can’t say I noticed at the time, but they weren’t wrong; with sandy blond hair and pretty green eyes, he’s the kind of pretty that’s almost too perfect. “The wallet?”
“Straight down to business.” Tommy chuckles. “Eager to get out of here, huh?”
I wince apologetically. “Sorry. Busy day.”
“You work at Bloom, right?”
I nod, nervously fiddling with the edges of the bandages covering my palms—pretty pink ones with an orange flower pattern so the sight of them makes my chest ache a little less. The edge of one curls upwards, the stickiness lost, and as I get distracted trying to smooth it down, I miss whatever Tommy says next. “Sorry, what?”
Unoffended by my absentmindedness, he smoothly repeats himself, “I said you look good.”
Liar , a voice in my head snorts.
“Thanks,” my actual voice chokes out, my cheeks surely bright red so I duck my head to try and hide them. “You too.”
I watch his elbows hit the counter, feel the shift in the air as he leans towards me. “I do, huh?”
Is he flirting with me? It sounds like he’s flirting with me. I almost laugh out loud—of course, he’s flirting right now, while I’m here collecting my drunkard father’s forgotten wallet two days after he was tossed out of here by the flirt himself. Seriously, the universe has a hell of a sense of humor.
Just once, I’d like to not be the butt of the joke.
“You know,” he keeps going, stooping to try to get in my eyeline again. “I always had a crush on you in high school.”
He’s messing with me. Or the universe is messing with me. Or a secret third party is messing with me; a reality TV show host is about to pop up with a camera shouting ‘gotcha’ at any moment. Or I’ve misheard him, misunderstood him, which is why I stutter, “What?”
Apparently, Tommy finds my flustered state amusing because his mouth stretches even wider. “I liked you. But obviously, you were with Jackson.” He leans in even closer, dropping his voice to a murmur. “But you’re single now.”
He’s not asking, yet I clarify anyway. “Uh-huh.”
“You free Friday night?”
My mind goes blank, any and every word in my vocabulary evaporating.
I think Tommy senses my panic. Straightening up, he lazily raises his hands, palms out. “No pressure. If you’re free, you’re free. If you’re not, you’re not. It’s okay.” One hand drops to reach beneath the counter, producing a napkin and a battered piece of leather I recognize as the wallet I bought Dad for Christmas at least a decade ago. Setting both down, he fishes a pen out of his back pocket and scribbles something on the napkin before sliding it towards me. “If you don't call, I’ll take the hint.”
Like a deer in headlights, I look between the ten digits and Tommy, with his genuine, endearing grin. Briefly, I consider what would happen if I took his number. If I actually used it. If I went on a date for the first time in years with someone other than—
“Jackson. Hey.”
I blink out of my reverie, and into a nightmare.
Universe , I internally shriek. Come on.
I take my time turning around. Before I do, I briefly close my eyes and pray some other member of the Jackson family has started going by their surname—I’d even take Lottie. I would gladly face chaos incarnate if it meant I didn’t have to face my ex-boyfriend in our regular date-night spot.
Unfortunately, my prayers have long since gone ignored, and as I glance aside, I find that hasn’t changed.
To his credit, Jackson smiles down at me, but it’s strained. More like a frown, which is just par for the course, really.
“Hi,” I cough out, my gaze darting around the bar and clocking all the eyes on us. Any minute now, someone’s going to whip out a camera and document this rare public appearance. “I was just collecting something. I didn’t know you were here.”
When the not-quite-a-frown starts to scrunch some more, I don’t stick around to hear what that downturned mouth opens to say. Or at least I try not to—my escape attempt is thwarted by a holler of my name.
Cradling her son with one arm, Lux waves me over with the other because of course she’s here too—as are the rest of her sisters. The whole family is squished into one booth, the table laden with the remnants of a meal, and I suddenly remember it’s Sunday; every Sunday morning for as long as I can remember, the Jacksons have come to Bishop’s.
Every Sunday for as long as I can remember, I haven’t.
I never took it personally. I knew it was a strictly family kind of thing, no exceptions.
Was being the operative word.
I’m not mad about Luna’s presence. Really, I’m not. It would be weird if she wasn’t here. But the ranch hand who’s been around for all of a few months having a seat at the table settles heavy in my chest, does something ugly to my mind.
Of course, Hunter’s here. He’s part of the family now. Part of the ranch. An essential piece of Serenity who everyone wants around.
I avert my gaze before he catches me staring, but as my skin itches, I fear I was a second too late.
“You wanna join us?”
The offer barely leaves Jackson’s mouth before I’m shaking my head. Pity invites aren’t on my agenda for today. I’m too fragile for it.
“C’mon,” he inexplicably insists, soft and careful. “Lux will kill me if you don’t at least come say hi.”
Yeah, well, I might cry if I do, and I don’t think anyone will appreciate that. “I really can’t.”
I really don’t want to. Please don’t make me.
Mouth flattened in a grim, straight line, Jackson rakes a hand through his long hair. “Listen, Caroline—”
“ Line .” An arm winds its way around my shoulders, and I mentally curse the universe again. Jackson is hard enough to say no to; his sister is impossible. “What’re you doing here?”
Flashing Lux a smile, I flounder for a lie. “I, uh, left something.”
“You left something,” she repeats skeptically. “Here? Really?”
My barely audible hum clearly lacks conviction because Lux doesn’t drop the matter. “You never come here.”
“Well, I did.”
“But you don't drink.”
“Didn't know I had to drink to come to a bar.”
Lux's eyes drift behind me for a moment. “Apparently not.” Linking an arm through mine, she tries to tug me towards the table. “Tell me about it over lunch?”
My phone dinging saves me. Feigning an apology, I dig it out of my purse, planning on using the unopened message as an excuse to get out of here, no matter what the content. But when half a dozen more roll through in milliseconds, Nova’s name flashing on my screen each time, a bad feeling settles in my gut. “Sorry.” I slip out of Lux’s grip. “I really have to go.”
The store is chaos.
Flowers and ribbon and gift baskets are strewn everywhere, and Nova stands in the center of it all, her eyes wild and glossy. The second she starts blabbering about missing orders and wrong dates, dread settles in my gut.
Even before I rush over to the order book, already open on the counter, I know I messed up. I don’t need the confirmation, but that’s what I find, along with the added bonus of discovering I really, really messed up. We’re not just missing a couple of orders due tomorrow; as I compare the book to a pile of Post Its and the starred emails in the store’s email inbox, I realize the entire rest of the month and almost all of the next are amiss. I check twice, three times, four times before I stop expecting to blink and find something different.
“It's okay,” I shakily reassure both myself and Nova. “I'll fix it.”
Despite the lump in my throat, I snap into autopilot, delegating the easiest of tasks to Nova. It's not her fault I screwed up. She shouldn't have to fix all my mistakes. Armed with the order book, a whiteout pen, and the correct, triple-checked dates, she retreats upstairs to try to fix the mess since I don't trust myself to do it. Ignoring my objections, she grabs some supplies for the gift baskets Lux ordered for a corporate retreat too, claiming she has nothing else to do anyway. But even with her help, my bottom lip quivers as I survey my list—I'm so going to be here all night.
I can’t believe I did this. How did I do this? I’m careful, I’m always so freaking careful. I’ve been distracted lately, I know I have, but writing down dates wrong? Forgetting some orders entirely? That’s not like me. That’s… God, that’s so disappointing .
Rubbing my chest like that’ll quell the ache brewing behind my ribcage, I rush to the store room to fish out what I need for the three anniversary bouquets due to be picked up in less than twenty-four hours. I hiss as roses—yet to be de-thorned, obviously, because it would be too easy otherwise—scratch my bare arms, but I persevere, so focused on picking out the perfect blooms, I almost miss the chime of the front door opening.
Yet another mistake on my part; the first thing I should’ve done is lock the damn door.
“We're closed,” I call out, hoping whoever's out there does me a favor and disappears quickly.
Bright side; when I emerge clutching a pile of flowers I can barely see over, it's not a customer I find.
It is, however, someone objectively worse.
Clearly, I did something terrible in a past life; that's the only explanation I can think of as to why Hunter freaking Whitlock has an uncanny ability of seeing me at my worst.
I don’t have the energy to be polite. I really don’t. I just want to get this done so I can climb into bed and bawl my freaking eyes out. “Go away, Hunter.”
Because Hunter has probably never done what he's told a day in his life, he goes nowhere. Instead, he frowns, those damn pretty eyes flicking around my face. “What's wrong?”
I say nothing, keeping my gaze downcast as I walk behind the counter and start meticulously checking petals for blemishes, figuring he’ll get the hint and leave.
Except he doesn't.
“Caroline,” he drawls my name low and slow, and for some reason, my eyes brim with tears. “What's wrong?”
I suck my bottom lip into my mouth to stop it from trembling. Despite my best efforts to keep a handle on myself, the roses go a little blurry as my vision clouds. “I messed up,” I whisper defeatedly. “I got some dates wrong and now we're really behind and Nova probably has to work overtime and I—” I cut myself off before I explain that I'll be stuck here for the foreseeable future. I shouldn’t complain. It’s my own fault; all because I’m incapable of doing one thing correctly.
“Can I help?”
My head jerks up. “What?”
Already rounding the counter to stand next to me, Hunter repeats, “Can I help?”
“You don't have to do that.”
“I want to.”
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. I don’t like him offering help, how this is the second time he’s felt like he needed to in as many days. I don’t like that staring at him, all soft and concerned, makes me think of the other night. Makes the healing scrapes of my palms and knees itch. Makes my eyes well up even more as my own incompetence sucker-punches me in the gut. “I can do it myself.”
Hunter sighs—not frustrated, not annoyed, but something gentler. “I know you can.”
“I’m not stupid.”
“I didn't say you were.”
“I'm good at my job.”
“I know, Caroline.”
“It was an accident.”
A hand lands on my shoulder, and I buckle a little under the weight. My head falls forward, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop a couple of tears from escaping. Hunter notices, muttering my name again quietly, and I brush the wetness away with a weak laugh. “Sorry.”
Long fingers dig into my shoulder blade gently. “Do you ever stop apologizin’?”
More tears fight their way through. The sobs clustered at the back of my throat beg to break free, and I quickly start to lose control over them. When Hunter cups the back of my head, a quiet whimper escapes before I can choke it down. An incoherent syllable follows when he strokes a path down my hair, ending at the nape of my neck. Not quite a wail, but definitely something burns my chest when suddenly, somehow, I’m cocooned by strong arms, my forehead hot against the cool, smooth skin of a thick neck.
He’s hugging me , it takes me a moment to dazedly recognize. Hunter is hugging me. Voluntarily. He initiates it. And, as I tremble with the effort of not sinking pathetically into his embrace, he mutters, “You’re good, Caroline. You hear me?”
I do. Loud and clear, thick and gravelly, calming yet completely unnerving at the same time.
Something heavy rests on my head, and later, when I regain control of my facilities, I’ll realize it was a cheek. That a mouth brushes my temple. That that same mouth murmurs, “I got you, honey,” and that’s what breaks me.
And God, do I break.
With a quiet sob, I slump against the brawny chest I vaguely remember thinking would make a great pillow, confirming that theory as I think what the hell? and bury my face in it. I don’t have the damn wingspan to wrap my arms around his waist, so I settle for clutching at his hips, feeling the swell of his stomach tense as my fingertips curl around his belt loops.
He doesn’t let me go, though. A brusque exhale against the top of my head makes me shiver, and then his grip tightens—like he’s trying to suffocate my overwhelmed nervous system.
It works, after a while. After God knows how long. Long enough to scratch my throat raw, for my eyes to swell, until my pulse throbs against my temples. All the while, quiet, simple words of comfort are whispered in my ear, and I can’t tell if they help or hinder.
Ten more seconds, I promise myself, even as I run out of tears, too caught in the rare feeling of comfort to recognize I might be taking advantage of it. Then I’ll get back to work.
More than ten seconds pass.
I don’t think either of us are counting.
For such an enormous man—therefore an owner of enormous, chunky fingers—Hunter is surprisingly nimble.
I don't know why I'm surprised that he takes to everything I tell him to do so quickly. He seems like the kind of guy who can do anything with ease, and apparently, floristry is one of them.
We work in relative silence, which is a blessing and a curse. A blessing because there's no opportunity for me to say something and embarrass myself more than I already have. A curse because the silence leaves space for my thoughts to run wild, every single one of them intent on convincing me that I'm a failure. I'm upset and mortified and the more I think about it, the more I want to cry again.
At least we seem to be pretending the breakdown didn’t happen. When I finally managed to pull myself together, Hunter asked if I was okay, and I nodded. He told me he was going to help, no room for arguments even if I had the energy to conjure one up, so I told him what to do. And that was that. Moment over, and hopefully never to be discussed again—fine by me.
But the silence . The freaking gaping silence. I—
“What's your favorite kind of order?”
I glance up at the man beside me, frowning. “What?”
“Orders,” he repeats casually without looking up from the stems I tasked him with de-thorning. “What do you like doin’? Weddings, anniversaries…”
I take a moment to respond, processing the question and coughing to clear my croaky, post-cry throat. “I like doing birthday orders.”
“Why?”
“Everyone should get flowers on their birthday.”
“You get flowers on your birthday?”
I laugh quietly. “No one sends a florist flowers.”
A quiet, thoughtful hum precedes another question. And then another, and another. Hunter fills the silence like that, asking me random questions and letting me ramble. I know why he's doing it—to keep me from freaking breaking down again—but still. I glow under the attention, no matter what the motive.
When he runs out of meaningless things to ask, the question that’s been niggling at the back of my mind since he turned up at the trailhead gets too loud to ignore. “Hunter?”
“Yeah?”
I hesitate for a moment, really considering my question, before quietly asking, “Are we friends?”
I sound like a child. A silly, sniveling child, but I have to ask. I can’t do the whole hot-and-cold thing. I can’t handle not knowing where I stand with him, feeling like I always have to be so careful. But when a solid minute passes without a response, I regret not keeping my mouth shut. “Never—”
“You’re mad at me.”
I peek up at him, swallowing nervously at the deep furrow between his brows. “No, I’m not.”
Hunter runs his tongue over his teeth. “No?”
I stare at his mouth a second too long before dropping my gaze. “Nope.”
“Bullshit.”
A shocked laugh parts my lips. Not because he swore, but because of his face—namely the goofy grin lighting it up, flashing the most of his straight, white teeth I’ve ever seen. I swear, my poor nervous system takes another hit, short-circuited by the crinkles beside his eyes, the deep, dimpled creases in his cheeks that not even his beard can hide, the damn twinkle in his eyes. It’s downright boyish, that grin, and I wasn’t expecting it, wasn’t prepared for it, so distracted by it that I almost miss the next words out of that widely stretched mouth.
“Friends don't lie to friends, Caroline.”
Friends don't lie to friends, Caroline.
I choose to blame my sudden urge to cry on the aftershocks of my breakdown.
Ducking my head in the hopes of hiding the big, dumbass smile stretching my own lips, I shakily promise, “I'm not mad.”
I never was. That comment he made about me and Jackson upset me, sure, but with everything else that happened that night, I all but forgot about it until now. And even if I hadn’t, today surely would’ve erased it from my mind.
Hunter’s gaze lingers, assessing whether or not I'm lying and heating every inch of my skin in the process. It feels like forever passes before he lets out a hum and looks away. “Good.”
Good. Good . Because he doesn’t want me to be mad at him. Because we’re friends.
Friends .