Ashley rolled her eyes and mouthed “I’m sorry” to John.
“Have fun, kids,” John said with a smile and a wave.
With my hand on her back, I walked Ashley to my truck and opened her door. I pretended not to see Violet and John watching from the window with matching smiles on their faces.
“Poor John,” Ashley said as soon as I closed my door.
I glanced at the now-empty window. “I think he’ll be just fine.” John didn’t strike me as a matchmaker, but I didn’t doubt for a second he’d listen to Violet as she rambled on about Ashley and me. I could only imagine what she’d tell him about us staying up late last night.
Christ. I ran my hand down my face as I imagined what the next lecture he gave me might sound like.
At the store, Ashley suggested we split up so we could finish faster.
“That’s not going to happen, Slick.” I wouldn’t let Ashley out of my sight. I wouldn’t even let her out of my reach in an environment as chaotic as a grocery store.
Huffing and rolling her eyes, she squinted at me and crossed her arms over her chest, but there was no bark to her bite when she said, “Fine.”
In the canned goods aisle, she set her purse in the kid seat and turned to browse the tuna selection. The little liar pretended to be the voice of reason but was just as inclined to spoil the demon cat as her grandmother.
“Ashley, you shouldn’t leave your purse unattended in the cart.”
Seriously, how did a woman, whose two best friends had PI/bodyguards for husbands, have no sense of self-preservation?
“It’s not unattended. You’re right there,” she said, not bothering to turn and verify if I was there or not.
“What if I’d turned my back? It’d only take a second for someone to steal it when you aren’t looking.”
“Fine.” She turned, reached over and grabbed it, then made a big show out of slinging it over her shoulder. “Happy now?”
“Blissfully. Let’s go.”
In Vegas, Ashley had told me she ate out a lot. I assumed she knew how to cook but didn’t want to. An assumption she corrected when she started filling the cart with pre-packaged and frozen meals.
“Do you know how to cook?”
“I do, sort of. It seemed senseless when it was just me.”
“But you cook for your grandmother.”
“I do, but I cheat.” She turned back towards the cart to see me removing the frozen meals. “What are you doing?”
“I’m not eating frozen or overly processed food at every meal.”
“I make breakfast with fresh eggs.” She defended herself.
“Good to know.” I smirked.
“Let me guess, you know how to cook.” She was laying the sass on pretty thick for someone who’d be enjoying the fruits of my labor.
Steering us to the end of the store with fresh ingredients, I answered, “I know my way around the kitchen.” Wanting to open up more, and thinking this was a safe topic, I shared more about my childhood. “I had to learn how to cook in foster care and ended up liking it. I’m not a gourmet or anything, but I can follow a recipe.” Wanting to surprise her, I understated my abilities.
“Had to?” she asked softly.
“Sadly, some of my foster parents thought fostering kids equaled free labor and assigned us chores. After getting an ass-whipping for burning a meal, I made it my mission to learn how.”
“I’m sorry you went through that.” She hooked her arm through mine as I pushed the cart.
“Thanks. It wasn’t all bad. And the experience taught me discipline and responsibility. When I wanted to take martial arts so I wouldn’t get bullied anymore, I didn’t think twice about working to pay for it.”
