“Flour,” I say flatly. “Eggs. Coffee.”
“And a hello would be nice, but I see we’re skipping pleasantries today.” Roger grins at Jessie. “I’m Roger. I run this place. You must be the woman Tank bid on at the placement auction.”
“This is Jessie.” I put my hand on the small of her back without thinking. She doesn’t pull away.
Don’t crowd her. Don’t be too much. Let her set the pace.
The mantra’s wearing thin.
“Word travels fast.” Jessie’s voice is wry, but she’s smiling.
“Small town. Not much else to do.” Roger says. “A thousand dollars, I heard. Must’ve been some auction.”
“She’s worth more than that.”
Jessie goes still beside me. Roger’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline.
I clear my throat. “The program, I mean. It was for a good cause.”
I grab a basket and steer Jessie toward the back of the store before Roger can elaborate further. She comes willingly, but I catch the curious look she shoots me.
“Was I?”
“Were you what?”
“Worth it.” She’s not looking at me, studying a row of canned tomatoes like they hold the secrets of the universe. “The thousand dollars.”
I stop walking. She stops too, finally turning to face me.
“Jessie.” Her name comes out low. Serious. “I would’ve paid ten times that to outbid Mr. Rolex. And I’d do it again tomorrow without thinking twice.”
Her eyes search mine. “That’s not what I asked.”
“Yeah, it is.” I take a step closer, close enough to smell her shampoo and see the faint freckles across her nose. “You’re asking if I regret it. If I think the money was wasted.” I hold her gaze. “The answer is no. Not for a second. Not even close.”
She swallows hard. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s looking at me like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect to find.
The moment stretches, thick with everything we’re not saying. I want to close the distance, back her against these shelves, and show her exactly how much I meant every word.
Instead, I clear my throat and nod toward the baking aisle. “Flour. Top shelf.”
“I’ve got it.” She stretches up on her toes, and my flannel rides up her thighs, exposing an inch of pale skin that makes my mouth go dry.
I’m behind her before I think, reaching over her head to grab the flour, just like in the kitchen the other day. Like it’s our thing now. My chest brushes her back. She goes still.
“Got it,” I manage, stepping back before I do something stupid.
Stop. You’re in public.
Jessie turns, flour clutched to her chest, cheeks faintly pink. “Thanks.”
“Yep.”
We finish the shopping in charged silence, grabbing eggs, coffee, and milk. At the register, Roger rings us up with a running commentary about the weather and his daughter’s new baby. Jessie listens like she’s genuinely interested—asking questions, laughing at his jokes, complimenting a photo of the baby he produces from his wallet.
By the time we’re done, Roger’s looking at her like she hung the moon.
Can’t blame him. I know the feeling.
