A vibrator.
Of course.
Ofcoursethey sell them here and that’s the item he happened to pick up.
I shake my head. “Oh, no, that’s not mine.”
“Well, not yet. You haven’t paid for it, presumably.”
Yep, PMS cramps. Definitely not getting fluttery feelings from this guy. “I wasn’tgoingto pay for it.”
“I’m not sure this is worth a theft charge,” he says, turning the box in his hands. The text on the side says Personal Massager; Thirteen Different Pulsating Modes to Satisfy. “Despite the messaging here, nothing at the Stop N Go lasts terribly long.”
“Maybe I don’t need longevity.”
JesusChrist, what am I even saying? I don’t have a hair-trigger clit, and it’s not like this man asked.
He stares at me for a beat, an unreadable expression on his face. The flush from before seems to dissipate a little, the natural color of his skin returning slowly.
I sway on my feet. “Um, besides, like I said, I wasn’t getting that.”
Both our gazes slide to the condoms dangling at eye level, some still swinging from the earlier commotion. His brows quirk as if in understanding, and I groan internally.
“Wait, no?—”
“Hey.” He places the box on a lower shelf, where I somehow missed an entire row of personal massagers. “I’m not judging.”
Before I can say anything more, he moves down the aisle toward the ready-made deli food.
My throat feels funny as I watch him crouch down, peering at the individual pizzas.
“Staring is impolite,” he notes without glancing at me.
“I…” My palms are sweaty, and I have no idea why I’m getting so tongue-tied. I’ve been performing onstage for audiences for as long as I can remember; talking to strangers has never been a hardship. “So is judging.”
“But I said I wasn’t judging.”
“With judgment in your eyes.”
His nostrils twitch as if in amusement. “Sounds like projection to me.”
“Projection? You think I’m judging myself?”
He doesn’t reply, instead reaching for a box of pizza, lifting it to read the ingredients.
Irritated, I turn away and pick up the items that have fallen to the ground. When I straighten, I hit my head on the shelf, displacing it once more. The man catches it again before the heavy piece can fall on top of me.
The edges are sharp, and he grabs it right as the corner scrapes my cheek, hauling it out of the way.
“You’re quite clumsy,” he says, holding the pizza in one hand and the shelf in the other. “Get what you needed this time? I think they cost a little less if you buy in bulk.”
I hold up my fists, which are clutching a dozen single-packs of condoms. They fall to the ground when I open my fingers. “There’s that nonjudgment again.”
“What you do in your free time is none of my business,” he says, shrugging.
“There’s nothing wrong with casual sex.”
Something flashes in his eyes for the briefest moment, an eclipse that’s gone by the time I blink. “Never said there was.”
