Page 12 of Something Like Sunflowers

I don’t love the entertained look Molly has in her eyes. She’s far too excited to show me whatever has her tapping and swiping like a madwoman across her phone screen.

But a few heartbeats later, I understand.

Hunter’s eight-pack abs are rolling up and down while he grinds himself against the air. Each and every ripple of his muscles is highlighted for the camera as he bends down so low the hollow of his tight backside is peeking from the top of his skin-tight work jeans, covered in filth and absolute sin as he raises his body and lifts a hay bale. Before the clip ends, he pokes his head around the side of his tractor and winks at the camera, looking the viewer up and down in a way that makes me feel like stabbing the eyes out of anyone who’s watched it.

“Sixty-four thousand views?”

Too many eyes to stab.

Molly snaps her fingers in front of the phone screen. “You okay, hon?”

She slowly retrieves her phone and slips it back into her pocket, biting her lip.

“You didn’t know he filmed those, huh?”

But I can’t respond.

“Well,” she finally says, “now you see who you’re competing against. He has the credentials, he has the followers, and he bought James a Dunkin’ Donuts gift card, so you’ve got some work to do. Now, we’re going back in there, and you’re giving Claudette reasons you should be the top choice, so I can beat James, got it?”

Molly might be as big a bitch and a fake as me. But that doesn’t mean everyone will be. Land the job. Start your new life.

We enter the room again, and I can faintly hear the end of a conversation between Hunter, James, and Claudette, which is awkward, even if I’m not still thinking about those videos of him half-naked on the Internet. Or why he’s doing that. Who he’s doing that for.

Does he spend time with any of the women who watch them?

My stomach feels queasy.

“And they say it never hurts to show up for the community, so that’s my life’s work,” Hunter says, and I almost cackle. Show up for the community? By filming videos for the Internet to ogle? Sure, bro, sure.

I’ve been thinking my new bitch program needs steps. Step one is not to say everything I’m thinking. Especially not that. So, naturally, I roll my eyes at Hunter instead.

He narrows his in response, because apparently my judging his half-naked extra-curricular is offensive to him.

Whatever.

“I know what you are now, Hunter. And I won’t be fooled by your buttery smoothness.” I cringe.

Shit. Why did I say that?

“My buttery smoothness?” He grins, making me grind my teeth and shoot him a death glare. “By all means, tell the interview panel how smooth my butter is, Dev.”

Molly chokes on her drink, sharing an inquisitive look with Claudette. But my eyes never leave Hunter’s as I find my seat. “I’m going to win this job,” I whisper to him as I lower into my chair.

He seems surprised by that. “Oh, yeah? What am I, then, Miss Winner, in addition to buttery smooth? Isn’t that how you put it?”

“A player,” I deadpan. “Not much has changed, I guess. Has it?” I don’t mean to sound saddened by this revelation, but I’m a shit actress when it comes to hiding things from Hunter, and he probably would have felt it even if I pretended.

He looks like I just shot his dog. Which I didn’t think would make me feel like I just shot my dog too. And now I feel like an asshole, and everyone’s dog is dead.

See what I mean about not saying what I’m thinking? Yeah.

“Ehem,” Molly clears her throat and laser beams her eyes at me, “I was just telling Claudette about your charity idea, Devyn.”

“You were?” I say, turning my body decidedly away from Hunter’s.

He scoots his chair away from mine too, and while I thought that wouldn’t affect me, my heart crumbles a little, like a road that can only take a few more bad storms. And maybe that’s exactly what my heart is.

“The Charity!” Molly repeats, abrasively enough that I stop letting what Hunter’s thinking distract me and slap my news anchor face back in place. It might be the fake me, but at least it’s a me who isn’t totally affected by Hunter Isaac and… hay bales.

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