Even if they end up with tobacco stuck to the side.
I ignored the cowboy smirks and followed Jenkins behind the counter, groceries in hand, mud on my heels.
“You look particularly nice today, Miss Floris, aside from the mud of course.” He handed me a pack of napkins. “Got a hot date after work?”
“Not sure what you mean byparticularly…” I winked and wiped myself down, the paper-thin napkins only smearing the mud. “But the only date I’ve got after work is with that batch of cinnamon rolls you’ve got cooling on the rack back there.”
He winked back. “Swing by after five and I’ll send you home with some.”
“Count on it.”
Just then, the door opened.
“Morning, Mable, sit where you’d like.” Jenkins said before focusing back on me. “How old are you now? Thirty? Careful, honey, that you don’t slide right into spinster territory.”
“One, this isn’t the nineteen-fifties, and two, I’m twenty-eight, thank you very much.”
He lifted his palms. “Oh, sorry to offend the modern-day feminist.”
I rolled my eyes.
“You need to settle down with a good man, Rose. All I’m sayin’.”
I busied myself by pulling the milk from the grocery sack, mentally counting the number of times he’d said that exact sentence to me.
“You need someone besides me watching over you.” He paused. “Speaking of watching, have you seen that creep around, anymore? The one that would sit outside your office and wait for you?”
I stilled, a chill snaking my spine. “No. That’s been taken care of. And I’ve told you, you don’t need to worry about me, Mr. Jenkins.”
“I do, and I will. It’s how I was raised. I chased him out of the parking lot a few times. I’ll always keep my eye out for you, you know.”
“Well, it’s not needed, but thank you.”
Jenkins fisted a hand on his hip. “You know, you never did tell me what happened with that last guy you dated.”
“You got anything else that needs to go into the fridge?”
He handed me the butter. “Fine, I understand. Keep your secrets. Want my opinion?”
“Why do I feel like you’re going to give it anyway?” I hollered as I set the milk and butter in the fridge.
“You were too good for him.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “I gotta go. I’m late.”
“Yes, you are. Grab yourself a new cup of coffee. You’re going to need it for your new patient, darlin’.”
“What do you mean?” Hook, line, sinker.
He scowled as he lined bags of flour on the counter. “Gluten free. Never in a million years did I think I’d be buyin’ flour without gluten.” He shook his head. “These damn kids and their kooky health crazes these days. Back in my day, we were lucky if even?—”
“Back to my new patient… what do you mean I’ll need coffee?”
A second passed as he appeared to be gathering his thoughts, or choosing his words carefully. I wasn’t sure which. It was the first time the man didn’t vomit gossip and I couldn’t help but wonder why.
“Ever seen that movie Raging Bull?” He finally said.
“No.”
