Chapter 16
16
He likes red roses, spicy lemonade, and flushed cheeks.
He hates Italy.
Market days are usually a solo affair for me.
Today, though, there’s a new development. A six-foot-six development with a Southern accent and custom-made size fourteen cowboy boots, cramped in the passenger seat of my truck.
I don’t think I mind Hunter tagging along. I know I don’t mind his presence; I never do. But the closer we get, the more my nerves grow, and with nerves comes the dreaded overthinking. By the time the familiar, colorful stalls come into view, it’s a miracle I haven’t crashed with how much I’m squirming, my body as antsy as my mind, my fingers tapping the steering wheel as my teeth bite into my bottom lip.
What if he hates it? What if he’s bored? What if he thinks how focused I get is weird? I do get abnormally caught up in sifting through the flowers, sniffing each one and eyeballing them from all angles, holding them up in natural light so I can see the real colors while interrogating and haggling with the sellers. Come to think of it, obsessive might be a more accurate descriptor. Or, you know, unhinged probably works too.
“You okay?”
Briefly meeting Hunter’s gaze, I force what I hope is a passable smile and nod.
He glances skeptically between my tapping fingers and my poor stinging lip. “You’re nervous.”
“Nope,” I deny with an easy, breezy laugh— not . “I’m just excited.”
He still doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t press the matter. He keeps on looking at me, though. Looking and looking and looking so intently, it takes me twice as long as it should to park. “You’ve got a staring problem, you know.”
“You’ve got a lyin’ problem.”
An offended noise parts my lips. “I’m not lying .”
“No?” Hunter shifts to face me, one hand braced against the dashboard while the other grips the back of my seat, something challenging about the way he leans forward. “Tell me why you’re nervous.”
I cluck my tongue in frustration—why can’t he be like everyone else and just let me be? “If you wanna leave or something, just tell me and we can go, okay? I won’t mind.”
The leather seat squeaks as Hunter relaxes, his back hitting the door behind him. “ Ah .”
“What?”
“A people pleasin’ problem,” he corrects himself. “That’s what you have.”
Denial brews only to promptly die, defense replacing it. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make other people happy.”
“Depends on how you’re doin’ it.”
“And how am I doing it?”
Head falling to one side, Hunter says nothing. He just freaking stares , like he’s trying to telepathically share the answer.
Or wear me down until I admit I already know exactly what he means.
By the time he looks away, I’m sweating. I breathe a tiny sigh of relief when he grips the door handle and shoulders it open. “C'mon. Show me what's so exciting about this place.”
None of the usual warm and fuzzy feelings of comfort hit me when I lay eyes on Aldo’s booth, not even when I spot a bunch of blue daisies—as beautiful as they are rare—peeking out from their hiding spot beneath the stall.
He and the unfamiliar, admittedly handsome guy beside him might only be cousins, but they could easily pass for brothers.
“Lina,” my former friend coos the nickname I cherished dearly up until about three seconds ago—up until his cousin repeats it knowingly, and his richly accented voice makes me flush. “This is my cousin, Roberto. Roberto,” Aldo claps a hand against his cousin’s shoulders, “This is Caroline. The woman I told you about.”
Garden shears—that’s what I’ll use to kill him.
Heat creeps up my neck when instead of simply shaking the hand I mutely extend towards him, Roberto uses it to yank me forward and greet me with a kiss on either cheek. No different to how Aldo usually greets me yet somehow a million times more intimate. “You were right, Al.” Full lips curve into a smile that’s nothing short of seductive. “She is beautiful.”
Sheesh. Four years with nothing to show for and now, suddenly, I have accented men dropping from the sky calling me beautiful. What the hell?
Taking a step back from the cheek-kissing, compliment-giving man, I flinch when I bump into a broad, warm chest. Eyes momentarily closing, I inhale a steadying breath; of course, Hunter is bearing witness to this… God, this mating ritual . This unwanted, and what will undoubtedly end up being unfruitful, set-up.
Of freaking course.
I start to mumble an apology—for bumping into him or for subjecting him to another one of my many humiliating moments, who knows?—and move aside, but I shut right up when a hand lands on my hip.
Holds me in place.
Wrecks my composure a little more.
Uh.
Okay.
I will my flushing skin to calm the hell down as I focus on the only man not flustering me to death—instead, he's only making me imagine his death. “Aldo, you remember Hunter.”
“I remember him.” My friend smirks, and his impending demise becomes a little more graphic. “I didn’t realize you were friends.”
Hunter pats my hip bone. “We are.”
Do I relax a little? I’m pretty sure I do. I think I relax a lot, actually. And I think a silly little voice in my head is going to be chanting ‘we are! We’re friends! He said so!’ for an embarrassingly long time.
Aldo’s hum is curious, his eyes promising we’ll discuss this later, his mouth opening to say God knows what, but I beat him to it. “We’ve gotta go,” I blurt. “Busy day.”
I don’t give Aldo a chance to stop us; I just grab Hunter’s wrist and tug until he follows me, blindly waving goodbye to the two Italians without looking back. “Nice to meet you!”
I hear them return the sentiment before there’s a rapid-fire burst of Italian. Only catching the word ragazzo , I frown. Boy? That’s odd. I distinctly remember Aldo insisting Hunter to be the opposite.
We pass half a dozen stalls before I deem us a safe enough distance away. Hastily releasing Hunter, I step away as much as the crowd ebbing and flowing around us will allow, flexing my tingling hand and offering a sheepish smile. “Sorry about that.”
Hunter’s blank expression gives nothing away.
“Aldo’s not usually that…” Weird? Lie. Pushy? Another lie. Hellbent on ensuring I’m not doomed to a life of solitude? Three for three. “He’s a really good friend.”
I frown when Hunter grunts. I thought we were past the barely-verbal non-answers. The avoidant eye contact, too. I try to sway into his eye line, but it remains focused back the way we came.
“And the other guy?”
“Uh.” I shift from one foot to the other. “We’ve never met before.”
All I know is he’s a handsome— confirmed —nice boy— unsure —who was raised right— nothing to substantiate that claim, but nothing to refute it either —and thinks I’m beautiful.
“Anyway.” I lighten my tone and try to steer the conversation in a direction that doesn’t make me want to burrow into the ground. “You ready to shop?”
Finally gracing me with his gaze, Hunter smiles. A tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but a smile all the same. “Lead the way.”
By the time I finish my rounds, The Roberto Incident is but a blip in an otherwise good day. I’m beaming, freaking beaming , as we wander back to my truck, my arms full of the best flower crops yet this summer.
And I beam some more when I glance at Hunter, equally laden down—a huge, intimidating man cradling a bunch of roses? Definitely beam-worthy. Red roses, to be specific, since I let him choose. In fact, a lot of today’s haul is various hues of red because I figured letting Hunter pick some stuff out would make up for the hours spent trailing me.
“Thank you,” I say softly once we’re inside the truck, seatbelts buckled, backseat a sea of fresh blooms, engine started. “I know that was kind of boring.”
Hunter slumps in the passenger seat, propping his forearm against the open window. “I wasn’t bored.”
“You seemed a little bored.”
Not, like, rudely bored or anything. Just... I don't know, a little distant, maybe? He was his usual quiet self, which is nothing new, but he seems less tuned in than usual. Normally, I can tell when he’s listening. He’ll let me yap on and on and on without making any real contribution to the conversation, but I know he’s paying attention.
Today, I wasn’t so sure.
If it wasn't for the hand cemented to the small of my back, I could've convinced myself he wasn't even actually there.
Almost .
I think maybe the hustle and bustle threw him off. Like I’ve said before, it can be overwhelming, and Hunter is undoubtedly a man of solitude. And now that we’re alone, he seems fine, the furrowed expression he’s been sporting all morning smoothed out.
A softer one replaces it, softening even more when he tugs on the end of my braid and quietly promises, “I wasn’t bored.”
The worry tightening my gut eases a little. “Okay.”
“I am fuckin’ starvin’ though.”
With a laugh, my concern evaporates.
“You wanna get lunch?”
I nod, diverting my attention between the road and the GPS as I type a quick search for the nearest drive-thru, only for my hand to be batted away. “What about Bishop’s? I could really go for their wings right now.”
I swallow the groan that begs to rip from my throat, scrambling for an excuse. “Uh, actually, I should get back to the shop. Flowers are gonna wilt.”
“We can drop them off first.”
When I hesitate, he huffs. Nervous I’ve irritated him, I glance over to find him squinting at me, smirking playfully. “You embarrassed to be seen with me, honey?”
A weak, awkward laugh escapes me. “Other way around, maybe.”
In the blink of an eye, Hunter changes. His face drops, every inch of that enormous body tensing and confirming my suspicion that what was meant as a joke didn’t come out all that jokey. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” I laugh again, and it’s just as strained as the first one. “Bishop’s sounds great. Let’s do it.”
I only agree so he’ll stop looking at me the way he’s currently looking at me, all furrowed features and piercing eyes, but it doesn’t work. The entire drive, he assesses me inquisitively, and the entire drive, the knot in my stomach grows until it’s approximately the size of Hunter.
A wave of nausea crashes over me as we pull into Bishop’s parking lot, and it only gets worse when we walk inside. While only a handful of people linger, it’s still a handful of gazes that swing to me. I drop my own, pathetic thing that I am, and all but hide behind Hunter.
By some miracle—or maybe he senses my discomfort—Hunter leads us to a booth tucked in the back corner, as far away from prying eyes as we can get. However, I still can’t relax. I still shift in my seat, still drum my fingers against my thighs nervously, still remain so outrageously intimidated by a freaking restaurant that I can barely function as a human.
But here’s a man with a staring problem and an uncanny ability to see right through me sitting across from me, so I attempt normalcy. I read the menu like I don’t know the damn thing by heart, and it distracts me a little to mull over the options again and again despite knowing I’ll get what I always get. As I pour all my focus into memorizing the ingredients of the house burger, I don’t notice footsteps approaching until a voice calls my name.
“Hey, Line.”
Universe , I sigh at the ceiling, wondering if this place is my very own purgatory. Really?
Hoping my face isn’t as reminiscent as a deer caught in headlights as it feels, I peer up at Tommy. He dithers at the end of our table, pen and notepad poised mid-air, head cocked, and expression confused. Curious. Dare I say disappointed .
Great. Terrific. Fantastic .
“Hi.” Would it be odd to suddenly excuse myself and sprint to the bathroom? Probably. Might be worth it, though.
“Hey.” Unlike mine, there’s no nervous pitch to Hunter’s greeting. He’s all smooth, husky, deep—maybe even an octave deeper than usual. The single word is all he offers Tommy before his focus returns to me. “Ready, honey?”
Swallowing over the lump in my throat, I nod jerkily and rattle off my order. Hunter does the same in a curt, dismissive tone, and the sound of Tommy scribbling is deafening in the following silence.
“Drinks?” he pointedly addresses me, and me only. “You were always a lemonade girl, right? We make this spicy one I think you’ll like.”
As insignificant a thing my spice tolerance is to remember about me, I still find my cheeks warming. “Sure. Thank you.”
“Two, please.”
Please , Hunter says, yet his tone implies something far ruder.
The second a tight-lipped Tommy slopes away, I jab a foot into Hunter’s shin. “What was that?”
His expression is the picture of oblivious innocence. “What was what?”
“You were being kinda rude.”
Hunter simply shrugs as he slumps in his seat. Our knees knock together beneath the table. One gargantuan thigh settles on the outside of either of mine, caging me in. “Was I?”
His blasé tone makes me doubt myself. Was he? Maybe I’m becoming so used to a softer Hunter, I forgot how brusque he can be—you know, to people who aren’t his friends . But then Tommy returns with our drinks, and I catch Hunter morphing into the stony-faced grump I used to hate just a little, and I know I didn’t imagine it.
A murmur of my name draws my attention aside. I jolt a little when I turn to find Tommy closer than expected. Leaning down with a palm against the table, he angles away from Hunter, voice quiet and so very foreboding as he says, “I hate to do this.”
My polite smile falters, a preternatural sense of knowing settling in my gut.
“But your dad was here again last night.”
For a millisecond, I close my eyes. One day. That’s all I ask. Why can’t I have that?
He usually doesn’t drink outside of the house—he can’t afford overpriced bar beers—yet this is twice in as many weeks. That I’m aware of, at least. As much as I hated the constant reek of booze and the excessive noise and the frequent, undesirable company, I preferred it that way. Him being wasted at home meant he wasn’t wasted around other people, people who would have questions, people who would talk.
Of course, after all these years, he chooses now to branch out. Of course, when I’m starting to feel like my life is on track, or at least finding a track, he ruins it. Of course.
“Oh?” I fight to keep my voice normal, to stop the myriad of emotions collecting in my chest from bleeding into it.
“Yeah, with a bunch of guys on his crew.” I hate the pity on Tommy's face. As if he knows more than I'm comfortable with him knowing. “I'm sorry, Line, but he left a tab open.”
My heart sinks.
“He said you would pay it.”
“What?” No amount of effort could keep my voice from cracking at that revelation. Quick to rectify my mistake, I smooth out my expression, waving a dismissive hand as I shake my head. “Yeah, of course. No problem. How much?”
The number he rattles off makes me cringe. I fight a sudden onslaught of tears as I dig around in my purse, and I pray neither men notice my hand trembling as I pass Tommy my card.
In one night, my dad managed to rack up a bill equivalent to an entire month’s rent. And not the pitiful amount Odette charges me; the kind you pay for a real apartment, in this town and every surrounding one. What the hell was he doing? Buying rounds for the crew? For the entire damn bar?
I hate him.
God, I hate him so much.
Tommy squeezes my shoulder, and I flinch at the contact, refusing to return the sad smile I know he's giving me. I don't want the comfort, I really don't. I don't want there to be anything in my life that requires comfort. I don't want to need comfort.
After he walks away, I keep my gaze firmly on the tabletop, my legs bouncing up and down, my nose scrunched with the effort of keeping tears from leaking. My body jerks when rough palms make contact with my knees, stopping their erratic movement. Sucking in a breath, I send up a silent prayer.
Don't say anything.
Please don't say anything.
Just let it go.
As thumbs draw circles on the skin above my kneecaps, I hold my breath and wait for the inevitable, dreading it.
“Favorite flower?”
My gaze snaps upwards. Finds no pity, no curiosity. Shutters briefly before reopening. “Daisies.”
With the size of those hands, Hunter’s fingers practically span the length of my thighs, and they shift a little higher to tug on the hem of my dress. “Aren't they weeds?”
“Only technically.”
When a corner of that mouth curls upwards, I forget why my skin feels so tight. As Hunter sits back slowly, palms dragging down my thighs before falling away, I forget my own name. And with every meaningless, mindless question he asks, I forget… well, everything.
Everything but him.