Without missing a beat, Shamrock nudged the other jar at him. Fly took it automatically. Shamrock, cool as ever, slipped a family-size bag of BBQ chips into the cart.
“Then we’ve got to decide between cuts,” he muttered. “Wavy or flat.”
“What formed this fascinating hypothesis?” Fly asked, dry as the San Diego sun.
“A book I read. Predictably Irrational.”
Fly barked out a laugh. “You should get that on a T-shirt.”
Than snickered under his breath, shaking his head. “He’s not wrong.”
“Fuck you, Gallagher,” Shamrock muttered, grinning.
Fly sighed, dropped the jar of sauce into the cart, and, without ceremony, removed the bag of chips. “You light-fingered that bag of chips like a snack pirate. Way to go, Chips Ahoy.”
“List Nazi,” Shamrock fired back. “No chips for you.”
As they moved through the store, Than had to hand it to him. Shamrock was running a whole chip heist right under Fly’s nose.
It started small. Casual. A single bag of Sour Cream & Onion Lays dropped behind the kale when Fly turned to grab olive oil.
Then it escalated. Salt and vinegar slipped behind the bottled water. Nacho cheese cradled between two frozen lasagnas. a family-size kettle chip sack stuffed into a twelve-pack of paper towels like he was hiding contraband.
Fly remained oblivious. Or chose to be. Hard to tell with him.
Than just watched, impressed and trying to hold back his laughter and, occasionally, his disbelief.
By aisle six, Shamrock was talking about nutritional psychology while double-loading jalapeño chips into the basket like he was packing for the end times and chips were currency.
“You’re not even hiding them anymore,” Than murmured.
“Hiding implies shame,” Shamrock replied. “This is sleight of hand in a domestic combat zone. Legendary behavior in progress.”
Fly turned just in time to catch Shamrock holding a suspiciously puffy bag behind his back.
“What is that?”
“Uh…croutons.”
Fly gave him a look.
Than gave it ten more minutes before Fly brought down the hammer.
Before they hit the hygiene aisle, Fly halted the cart and pulled out every single bag of chips—twelve, by Than’s count—and stacked them in his arms like contraband. “Put these back,” Fly said, calm but clipped. “Then get back here ASAP. We’re done, and you’re so done.”
Than nodded, turning just enough to give Shamrock a look of sympathy. “It was a good run, man.”
Shamrock just shrugged, unfazed. “Fly forgets I find a four-leaf clover in a bed every single time.”
“Is that a warning?”
“Gentle reminder, oh, List Nazi.”
Than jogged to the chip aisle and stacked all the bags in their respective slots. He turned and that woman from the deli case was right behind him. She brought him up short.
“Hey there. That was a lot of chips. Buyer’s remorse?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “No,” he said, fumbling. “Tactical pirate thief.”
