“I could ask you the same question.”
Narrowing his eyes, Nacho makes a disgruntled sound and spins back around. He bends to retrieve the box, deliberately displaying his perfect ass. Instead of returning the box to the shelf as I’ve instructed, he raises his brow in challenge as he drops it into his basket.
I walk over, pluck the box out of his basket, and put it back on the shelf. Biting his lip, he reaches for it again, defiant. I grab his arm, loving how his chest rises abruptly at the touch.
“Those are mine,” he pouts, amusement lighting up his eyes.
I like the pouting. Too much.
Taking the fresh veggies from my basket, I put them in his. “You need to learn how to eat better.”
He immediately tries to remove the vegetables, but I stop him with my hand over his in a firm grip.
“Ignacio, you will take these, you will cook them appropriately, and you will eat them.”
“Why should I?”
“Because I said so. Because you work in the sun and need to combat the free radicals bombarding your body all day long. Are you even using the sunscreen I recommended?”
He crosses his eyes and then points to a tube of that exact sunscreen in his basket. “Bossy motherfucker,” he mutters under his breath.
“Bossy, perhaps. But it doesn’t give you a white cast, now does it?”
He shakes his head. “It’s fine.”
The video he sent me, several minutes of him slathering sunscreen across every delicious inch of his body, showed at least one weakness I’d counseled him on.
“And how is it going with you getting the back of your neck? I seem to remember you overlooking it in your video.”
His lips hook into a tiny little smile. “Yes, I have Ant get it for me.”
Is he lying just to get a rise out of me?
“Do you actually need help applying sunscreen?” I ask, hating how jealous I sound. More than that, hating how jealous Ifeel. “Even children can apply their own sunscreen.”
He shrugs. “I’m just trying to follow your directions, Dr. Barlowe.”
“Perhaps we should discuss flexibility exercises so you can reach the back of your neck by yourself. You need to be more self-sufficient.”
“But if I were self-sufficient, how would you ever help me?” he asks, letting his smile spread into a full grin, teeth and all.
“Even self-sufficient people need guidance, Ignacio. For instance, I assumed you would be interested in preserving your many tattoos, yet you still needed help remembering to use sunscreen.”
“You’re right, Dr. Barlowe. I might lose my head if you weren’t here to tell me how to keep it screwed on straight.”
Slowly running his teeth over his bottom lip, he inspects my body from head to toe. “Well, notstraight, come to think of it.”
Frustrated by my arousal, I ask, “Why are you here? There are grocery stores in Johnson City.”
“I could ask you the same question,” he says, throwing my words back at me.
I grind my teeth, not wanting to cause a scene.
Grinning, he walks past me, trailing his fingers along my arm. “As stimulating as this conversation has been, I’ve got a hot date to prepare for,” he says, pointing at the enema box in his basket. “See you around, Dr. Barlowe.”
If he were mine, I’d drag him from this store and make him forget the thought of another man. But he’s not, and this thing between us is…pretend. Before I can think of a way to make him stay, Nacho disappears around the corner, whistling.
Forcing myself to walk in the opposite direction, I pull up my anonymous Instagram account. Nacho is vain about his beauty, as he should be, and he likes to share his workout selfies with the public. I haven’t addressed this yet. If I’m honest, it’s because this is the only place I can see his body how I want to.
