“Come on, then,” he says. “You can push the cart.”
“Oh,” I say. “Promotion.”
Beckett grabs a bag of lettuce and throws it into the cart before stopping in front of the dressings. “I’m surprised you don’t make your own,” I quip.
“I usually do,” he says, scanning labels. “But those are for Italian, and tonight is steak night. In my professional opinion, the only correct options are Thousand Island or blue cheese. And I’m in the mood for a sweet flavor.”
“Thousand Island it is,” I say because I happen to agree with him.
He drops a bottle into the cart, grabs garlic, and we angle toward the potatoes.
Out of the corner of my eye, two familiar shapes materialize near the display.
Oh, hell.
Instinct kicks in. I throw an arm across Beckett’s chest and redirect him hard toward the strawberries.
“Whoa, easy there, big fella,” he laughs. “If you wanted strawberries, you could just say?—”
“I don’t want strawberries,” I whisper, a little too harshly.
His eyes widen. “Dom, I like you, but not enough to publicly role-play in the produce section of our local grocery store.”
“It’s the old ladies,” I grumble.
He cranes his neck. “Where?”
“Potato bunker. Two o’clock. Locking on target.”
He gasps. “Shit. Hide me.”
In one smooth move, he tucks behind me, using my back and the cart as cover.
“Think they saw us?” he whispers.
“Considering they’re peeking around a pile of potatos like budget CIA…” I say. “Yeah.”
He bonks his forehead lightly against my back. “Okay. Strategy. You run interference, I’ll get steaks. Go.”
“Why me?”
“Because we need potatoes. And they’re trying to set me up with someone’s cousin’s friend’s brother who ‘also just happens to be gay.’”
The fuck they are.
“Mine,” I growl under my breath.
He grins up at me wickedly. “Exactly, big guy.Yours. Now use your terrifying presence for good.” He pats my chest and moves off toward the butcher.
Traitor.
I turn the cart in their direction and ease in with caution. “Good afternoon, Ms. Brandy, Ms. Cook. Ladies, what a surprise, running into you here… at the potato… store.”
“Lame,” Ms. Brandy announces.
Ms. Cook nods, eyes twinkling. “Shopping for potatoes, dear? Need help? She’s very gifted.” I stare at her blankly. What?
“She is,” Ms. Cook continues. “Just last week, I was making my famous bacon potato soup and asked her to pick me up some on the way home. Made my bacon potato soup legendary.”
