“Well, well.” His gaze prowls over me in a way that’s far too appreciative for a deli aisle. “Didn’t peg you as a meat market regular.”
“Ditto,” I deadpan. “Though, on second thought…”
He laughs. “This place is my secret weapon. Been coming here for years.”
I glance up at the thick sausages swinging from their hooks above him then on instinct—because my brain is in the gutter—my traitorous eyes drop to the front of his gym shorts.
“So, Adams, this is where you come for all the thick meat?”
My eyes snap back up at him. He smirks.
“I could ask you the same.”
His teeth catch on his bottom lip.
“It looks like someone already stole the best cuts.” I shoot him a look. “Shocking.”
He shrugs, unapologetic. “I got here first. And I’ve already told you…I prefer strategically acquired.”
“Mhm.”
He follows me through the narrow aisles, two steps behind. I pretend not to notice. He pretends not to be watching the way my ponytail swings.
We reach the checkout, and while I’m digging in my crossbody purse for my card, he sidesteps me, slides his steak onto the belt like we’re grocery shopping together, and pays without breaking stride.
“I don’t–why did you do that?”
The cashier hands me the bags. He snatches the heavier one out of my grip before I can argue.
“I’m just being neighborly,” he says.
“Please tell me you don’t live here.” I follow him toward the door.
“I don’t. Tribeca. And I’m being a gentleman, Adams.”
“Didn’t know you knew how to.”
“Occasionally.” He pushes open the door and steps aside so I can pass. The early evening air wraps around us like a weighted blanket, sun slipping low over Astoria, golden light sprawling across the brick buildings and fire escapes.
“So, you live nearby?” he asks casually, adjusting the bags in his hands as we step onto the sidewalk.
I stop walking. “What arereallyyou doing in my neighborhood, Rhodes?”
He smirks. “Meat. I told you.”
“That better be all you’re here for.”
His eyes sparkle with zero innocence. “Can’t a guy pick up a few steaks without getting interrogated?”
“We keep running into each other and I’m starting to wonder if you’re stalking me.”
“Trust me, Adams,” he says. “I’m definitely not stalking you. But the universe obviously has a plan.”
“Right. A plan.”
Nolan lifts a shoulder, biting back a grin, and that damn dimple is cocky as ever. I should be alarmed. Instead, my pulse kicks.
As he carries the bags, I watch his muscles shift beneath that tight tshirt, and several thoughts enter my mind, ones that should be censored. The sun catches on his stubbled jaw, then climbs higher over cheekbones, the slope of his neck, up to that stupid backwards hat barely keeping his hair in check.
