“It’s in the rule book. I still need the other half of my groceries, however. Meat and such. Right? I can’t imagine a dinner of eggs and blueberries.”
His lips—lips she’d just kissed—twitched a fraction.
A middle-aged woman drew near, giving them not-so-subtle glances.
Sam tugged the front of the cart toward himself, caught it, and started down the aisle. Genevieve fell in step beside him. He added things to his cart without even looking at them. Was he rattled?
“I have a lot of flaws,” he announced, clearly wanting to expound on his earlier statement about having nothing to offer. “I’m stubborn, opinionated, and set in my ways.”
“Point taken.”
“I shut people out. I want things I shouldn’t.”
“Hmm. Anything else?”
“I hate baseball.”
“That’s a crying shame. The hot dogs and peanuts they sell at the stadiums are yummy.”
He selected protein bars from a shelf.
“You may be shocked to learn that I, too, have flaws,” she said. “I cry too easily, and I’m terrible about laying down boundaries with my mom and with other people, too.”
“I see,” he said, carefully neutral.
“I hate video games and yogurt.”
“Ah.”
“I have a weakness for prescription painkillers, and I often procrastinate my writing by taking online quizzes that tell me important things like which flavor of cupcake I am.”
“Anything else?”
“My sister is prettier than me.”
That commanded his full attention. “She’s not,” he said emphatically.
“Of course she is. Everyone thinks so.”
“Not me.”
They reached the check-out line. He leaned and stretched as they unloaded items onto the belt, muscles playing beneath his clothing. As they inched forward in line, she noted the tawny brown of his short hair. The slope of his nose. His waist.
This very controlled man had just kissed her in the middle of a grocery store! She could hardly believe it.
Thanks to her efforts, they bantered back and forth on the drive home. She didn’t want him to get too much into his own head.
At her cottage, he insisted on carrying the groceries inside for her. When he’d set the last bag down, he turned to her. Silence elongated.
“Thanks,” she said. The last thing she wanted was to try to define anything or to put pressure on him. “Good night.”
He dropped his usual shields—just for a second—and she could see the force of his desire in his eyes. Then he shook himself, as if coming to his senses, and made for the door. “Good night. I’ll come by soon to explain all the things you can make with your groceries.”
“You better. I’m a Starbucks girl, not a kale girl.”
He shut the cottage’s door behind him.
She pressed her hands against her cheeks and stared into the middle distance.
