Page 9 of Something Like Sunflowers

I don’t care about any woman on the Internet, anyway. I haven’t dated anyone in a long time. It’s not fair to give them half of my heart when the other half will always belong to the girl next door.

No, I don’t care about any of those women. The ones who send me late night texts, hang all over me at bars, soccer moms with phone numbers stuffed in coat pockets on the sidelines. I don’t give a lick about any of ‘em but the one standing right in front of me. Never have, and I reckon I never will.

I’ve been thinking about her since I bumped into her on the street. I’ve mulled it over. I’ve weighed the damn pros and cons. And you know what?

I don’t really care why God saw it fit to put her in my path again, but I’m not dumb enough to fuck it up twice.

I came here for a job I don’t even need.

They reached out to me.

I could give two fucks about Classy Country and their frilly fabrics, and as far as I see it, the only thing that’s piqued my interest here in the city came from the country to begin with.

And as I watch the girl of my dreams do nothing short of make an ice cream sundae out of my body right in front of the whole damn interview, I lick my lips and decide right then and there.

I’m gonna make this woman fall in love with me. Again.

Chapter 6

Devyn

Hi,” I breathe. I think I breathe it, at least. I’m trying super-duper hard to make words for, like, sentences. But that’s Hunter Isaac.

My stomach is doing loops, because of course on a day as important as this one, there would be obstacles. I just didn’t think they’d be two-hundred-pound, six-foot-two obstacles that quite literally walked out of my bedroom fantasies. Still, I have a job to land. And now a few questions waiting on the tip of my tongue.

The first being, “Why are you here?”

I don’t realize my sentence making abilities have returned until after I say it. I also don’t mean for it to sound so hateful. It’s part of my bitch curse, I’m sure.

Molly, Claudette, and a man in a cat sweatshirt and chemically distressed jeans, who I guess I’m supposed to assume is James, all stare at me like I’m an absolute lunatic, but Hunter just works his bottom lip between his teeth while his eyes say barrels of inappropriate things to me with a single glance. My thoughts betray me, and I can’t help but imagine running my own teeth over those stupidly gorgeous lips and…

“Fuck. Me.”

Oh, my God.

My hand shoots to my mouth at the same time as James’ pops open, in what seems to be the only moment he decides to pay attention. Of course. We all watch his pastry crumble to the floor, and as the cherry filling splats on the cow-print rug next to Claudette’s already-ruined-shoes, my stomach leaps into my throat.

This is not going well.

Suddenly, the room is hot. And not the good kind. The “I want to rip my shirt off and sit in front of two fans or else I might pass out” kind. I’m beyond embarrassed. And all at once, it hits me like a ton of bricks that I am one hundred percent not getting this job now.

What will I do? What will I tell Dad?

I’ve never had a panic attack before, but I might be. I’m lighter than air and the room is so bright. And I’m hot.

I don’t like feeling so out of control, so against the odds.

Like a failure. In front of everyone.

“Breathe, Ponygirl,” Hunter whispers beside me.

I’m safe in his command before I even feel him.

Ponygirl.

I meet his gaze, and for a split second, we’re just kids playing tag in the very sunflower fields that inspired my nail design.

The deep vibrations of the voice I’ve only heard in my dreams for years float around me and hold me so close that I forget we aren’t alone. Hunter’s arm is wrapped around my waist, where it feels natural. The hand that presses against my back guides me gently to my chair, as the scent of pine and sandalwood seeps into my soul and fits around me like a lifeboat. I feel instantly at ease beside Hunter. I’m not freaking out.

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