Page 53 of Bloom: Part 1

He was not amused.

“Is everything okay, sir?” The hostess glanced from Bloom to me. “Is this not who you were expecting?”

“Yes, of course. Just a temporary lapse in memory.”

The hostess nodded and hurried away. Bloom took the seat across from me, and for a moment, silence reigned between us. His piercing gaze was steady and accusatory, so much I squirmed, even though I’d done nothing wrong.

I’d cut his balls off and keep them on the nightstand so he would not forget it. And if he cheats again, I’ll cut off his dick. That way, I know where it is at all times.

Did he see this as cheating?

“How’s your leg?” I asked.

“Fine.” He picked up the one remaining roll and ripped it into half. “You weren’t thinking of cheating on me, were you?”

“How can I cheat on you? We’re not in a relationship.”

He slapped his hands on the table, loud enough to startle the couple a few feet away from us. “I dare you to say it again.”

Now wait one damn minute.

He didn’t tell me what to do. “You’re causing a scene. Lower your voice, and we can talk. I didn’t cheat on you with anyone. It’s just dinner.”

“I know that.”

“You do?”

“Yes, because I like your balls where they are, and I think you do too.”

I rolled my eyes. “You have some nerve showing up here when you’ve been MIA for the last eight days. Do you know how worried I was about you?”

Shit, I’d raised my voice and spoke louder than Bloom had before. Only he could get me to act so out of character. Only he could rile me up this much, yet the second I’d seen him, color returned to my world. His raw energy, his impulsive reactions, his maddening reasoning—they were all part of the package that was Bloom.

And I was drawn to that package.

“You said you missed me.” Bloom pushed the flower centerpiece on the table out of the way and pulled his chair closer. “Did you mean it?”

“Yes.” The word was a nail I’d driven into my own coffin, but I couldn’t lie to him. Better yet, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore. I wanted him. I wanted the boy sitting across from me, his eyes heavily lined with black mascara and eyeshadow against his pale skin.

“How much?” he asked.

“Come on, Bloom. Isn’t it enough to know I missed you?”

“No. You have to tell me how much.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you. If I wasn’t a trained professional, I would be thinking of you while I was operating on patients.”

Bloom pulled a face. “Then you didn’t miss me enough.”

“What?”

“Otherwise, you would have thought about me even while you were performing surgeries.” Bloom got up from his chair, came to my side, and sat on my lap. I stiffened, glancing around me.

“You can’t do that here.”

“Why not?” He twined his arms around my neck. “I missed you too,” he said, almost purring like a cat. “I kept thinking of what you did with your mouth and that I want you to do it again.”

“Then why—”

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