Farley produced a list from his pocket, because of course he did.
“Coffee, cream, eggs, bread,” he read off. “And whatever you need from personal care. I’m also getting something for dinner that isn’t pasta.”
“What’s wrong with pasta?”
“Nothing, in moderation. Four nights in a row isn’t moderation.”
“I happen to like your pasta.”
“You like everything I cook. You have no standards.”
“I have very specific standards,” I said. “They just happen to be met by you.”
Farley’s ears went pink. He shoved the list at me. “Toiletries. Go. I’ll handle the food.”
I wandered toward the personal care section with a smile I couldn’t quite suppress. Making Farley blush had become one of my favorite hobbies. It happened so easily—a well-placed compliment, a lingering look, standing slightly too close—and the result was always the same delightful shade of pink creeping up his neck.
I was examining my limited options—generic shampoo that would absolutely destroy my hair, a razor that looked like it belonged in a horror movie—when I felt someone approach.
“Excuse me.”
I turned to find an older woman with silver hair and bright, curious eyes.
“You’re him, aren’t you? Dr. Brock Blaze?”
I put on my public smile. “Guilty as charged.”
“I knew it. My granddaughter watches every episode. She’s going to be so jealous.” The woman clasped her hands together. “Would you mind terribly—just a quick photo? She’ll never believe me otherwise.”
“Of course.”
She fumbled with her phone, clearly not comfortable with the camera, and I was about to offer to help when Farley appeared at my elbow.
“I can take it,” he said smoothly, plucking the phone from her hands. “You two get in the frame.”
The woman beamed and positioned herself next to me. Farley took several shots—more than necessary, probably—and handed the phone back.
“Oh, these are perfect!” She scrolled through them happily. “Thank you so much. And thank you,” she added to Farley. “Are you his assistant?”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Farley’s expression flickered—something between offense and amusement. “Something like that.”
“Well, you take wonderful photos. Very professional.” She patted my arm. “You boys enjoy your visit. And bundle up—they’re saying more snow this weekend.”
She hurried off, clutching her phone like a trophy.
“My assistant,” I said, once she was out of earshot.
“Shut up.”
“Very professional photos.”
“I will leave you here.”
Farley’s breath caught. For a moment, we just stood there in the toiletries aisle, six inches apart, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then snapped back up.
I didn’t move. I didn’t need to. He closed the distance himself—hesitant at first, then certain—and his lips brushed mine in a kiss that was brief, electric, and utterly undoing.
