Our families started doing this when we were fifteen—making little Thanksgiving loot bags to drop off at a few shelters around Naples—and it kind of became our thing.
A tiny, simple way to give back. A way to saythank youfor everything we have.
And judging by how full the cart is getting, we're definitely overachieving this year.
Zach rolls the cart forward again and I walk behind him—big mistake.
He looks stupidly good doing absolutely nothing.
One hand on the cart, shoulders relaxed, head tilted like he's contemplating the deep meaning of cranberry sauce. His fitted navy T-shirt stretches over his back and shoulders, outlining every clean line of muscle. And his biceps—dear God—his biceps look like they're trying to break out of the sleeves on purpose.
Then my eyes drag lower—waylower—and suddenly I'm locked onto his ass.
Sweet. Holy. Yam casserole.
His jeans fit himtoowell—snug in all the right places, hugging him like they were custom-tailored by a team of angels who specialize in sinful tailoring. Every step he takes makes the fabric pull just right, like it's enticing me to go full unhinged girlfriend in the middle of Publix.
The man bends slightly to nudge the cart around a corner and — yep.
There goes my sanity.
Good God.
Oh, pilgrims and pumpkin pie.
Forget Thursday—my Thanksgiving came a whole day early.
Thank you, universe,I think reverently, staring at him like he's the main course.This is the kind of blessing they should write hymns about.
I'm so focused I don't even notice he stops.
I ram into the cart.
He turns around slowly, one brow raised. "You good back there?"
"I—yeah. Just... thinking."
"About my ass?"
My mouth drops open. "What? No! Oh my—Zach!"
He snorts. "You're staring so hard you look like you're trying to laser-scan me."
"Maybe don't walk around with—" I gesture vaguely, flustered. "—that situation."
"My butt?"
"Westbrook!"
He bites back a grin, steps closer. "Baby, if you want a closer look, you don't have to do it in a grocery store."
"I hate you," I mutter, which only makes him smirk harder.
He bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. "You're cute when you're flustered."
"I'm not flustered."
"You're bright red."
