I trail along while she moves to the yogurt section two cases down. “You know, the team succeeding would help…all…of the players,” I say slowly.
I get an eye roll ofthis again?
“And if you’re doing this move across the pond right, cooking will get harder and harder the closer you get to leaving,” I add. “Who wants to buy another full carton of salt for two last meals? You might even need to eat out more the closer your move date gets.”
She grabs a tub of plain Greek yogurt and moves on toward the cheese.
Likes dairy. Noted.
“I guess your mates have you covered though, don’t they? Nice ladies.”
“They would eat you alive, spit you back out, and then take pictures while the raccoons finish off your remains,” she murmurs.
Fuck. I’m smiling again. “Good kind of mates to have.”
“The best.”
“Bet they’re always trying to set you up with their grandsons.”
“Nope.”
“They don’t have grandsons?”
“Life isn’t all about who you date.” She reaches for a package of aged white cheddar—the highest-end stuff—but stops and looks at me again.
Fullylooksat me.
There is something going on in her head. Something big. Something with wheels and levers and gears.
If it were me, I know what I’d be thinking.
Temporary fuck buddy.
She’s leaving.
I’m staying.
Moving is stressful.
And fucking is the best part of dating, so why not do the fucking part and skip the dating?
But I’ve been on this earth for thirty-four trips around the sun, two divorces, at least three drinks in my face for voicing my opinion, and enough lectures from my father about how to treat a woman that I don’t say it out loud.
Anymore. I don’t say it out loud anymore.
If she says it, though, I’m in.
I like badasses.
She’s hot.
Funny too. Don’t always find that in a fuck buddy.
But I won’t be the one to suggest it first.
She’s going to.
I can feel it.
