After spending a solid five minutes scouring the shelves for a lighter of some sort, my shoulders slump in defeat. As I turn the corner of a display case empty-handed, patting my jacket for my phone, the toe of my shoe catches on the heel of someone else’s.
I grit my teeth, pinching my eyes shut as a solid wall of muscle grunts ahead of me. My nose bends, colliding with his back, and for the first time, I get a short whiff of his cologne: something soft, masculine, and woodsy with a touch of citrus.
His exhale is loud in the small store, and I feel it in my chest somehow.
“You should really look where you’re going,” he says, turning with a white plastic bag in hand. “Leaving without a purchase?”
“Ah, yeah. I’ve got someplace to be, and I can’t find what I was looking for.”
“So not condoms then?”
I clench my teeth, my eyes narrowing. “No.”
“Right. Because you’re on the pill.” He pauses but starts again before I can reply. “You know that does nothing to protect against STIs, right? Most healthcare professionals recommend two methods of contraception.”
“To prevent pregnancy.”
“Doesn’t sound like a bad habit either way.”
“You sound like mydad,” I say. “Or a teacher.”
“I’m trying to be helpful.”
“By mansplaining contraception to a grown woman.”
“Public education sometimes fails people.”
I let out a groan, slapping my hands over my eyes. “This is such a weird conversation to be having with a stranger.”
“Or perhaps it’s a perfectly civil conversation to be having,” he suggests with a shrug. “As I said—no judgment.”
“Which was a lie.” My hands fall to my sides. “I was looking for a lighter or some fire-starting equivalent.”
“What for?”
“Um…” I clasp my hands behind my back, posturing as I push my chest out.
The stranger glances briefly at my offered cleavage, his face blossoming a bright pink once more. My insides flutter, warmth spreading through my limbs like liquid honey, but then he returns his gaze to my face.
Waiting.
“I have a meeting,” I say finally.
“A meeting where a lighter is required?”
“Isthatyour business?”
“Well, I don’t know. You seemed to think your menstrual history was my business, so I’m not exactly sure where lines are being drawn at the moment.”
Heat scorches my face, and I imagine my skin matches his as he reaches into his pants pocket, pulling out a gold Zippo lighter. There’s a symbol etched onto the front of the lid, though it’s difficult to fully make out what it is since it’s worn, likely from years of use.
“Here.” He reaches forward, the plastic bag jostling as he overturns my wrist, placing the lighter in my palm without skin-to-skin contact.
“I can’t take this.”
“You’re not going to find a lighter or matches anywhere in Fury Hill,” he says. “An incident a few years back at the town’s favorite watering hole left city officials uneasy, and they’ve allbut outright banned the sale. You could drive to Concord, but I’d hate to see you miss yourmeeting.”
It’s clear he thinks the meeting is code for sex, but I don’t care. Better he believe that than be privy to what I’m actually up to.
