I’ve been thinking about him since yesterday. Since he walked into the coffee shop with his friends and asked me to surprise him with a drink. Since he smiled at me like he truly saw me.
It’s ridiculous. I barely know him. He’s just a customer. A hockey player who probably has a dozen women throwing themselves at him every night. There’s no reason for me to be thinking about him at all.
Yet I am.
I’m thinking about the way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he grinned. The way his voice dropped when he said my name. The way something in my chest loosened, just for a moment, when he was near.
I hate it.
I hate that I can’t stop the thoughts because, truth be told, they’re dangerous.
I stop in front of the tomatoes and reach for one, turning it over in my hand. Preston asked me to pick up ingredients for pasta tonight. He’s particular about his tomatoes. They have to be firm but not too firm, red but not overripe. I’ve learned exactly what he likes.
I grab three that look perfect and set them in the cart.
“Excuse me?”
I startle and turn to find a man standing beside me. He’s maybe in his forties, wearing jeans and a faded Michigan State sweatshirt. He looks tired but friendly.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Sorry to bother you,” he says, gesturing at the tomatoes. “But how do you know which ones are good? I don’t want to pick out the wrong ones and have my wife give me grief about it.” He laughs, the kind of self-deprecating laugh that says he’s definitely picked out the wrong tomatoes before.
I relax slightly and give him a small smile. “Um, you want them to be firm but give a little when you press on them. Like this.” I pick one up and gently squeeze it. “See? Not rock hard, but not mushy either. And make sure there’s no bruising or soft spots.”
He nods, studying the tomato in my hand. “Okay, firm but not too firm. Got it. What about the color?”
“Bright red is usually best. If they’re too pale, they’re not ripe yet. If they’re too dark or have wrinkles, they’re overripe.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, grabbing a few tomatoes and inspecting them carefully. “My wife usually does the shopping, but she’s been working late, and I’m trying to pull my weight. Cooking dinner and everything.”
“That’s nice of you,” I say.
“Yeah, well, she deserves it.” He drops a few good ones into his cart. “Thanks again.”
“No problem.”
He walks off, and I turn back to my cart, reaching for the handle.
That’s when I see him.
Preston.
He’s standing at the end of the aisle, arms crossed, jaw tight. He wasn’t supposed to come in. He said he’d wait in the car because he had a business call. But there he is, staring at me with that look I’ve come to dread.
My stomach drops.
“Hey,” I say, forcing a smile as I push the cart toward him. “I thought you were on a call.”
“I was.” His voice is flat. “Then I wasn’t. Thought I’d come in and help. Looks like my timing was inconvenient for you.”
“Why do you say that?” I ask even though I already know.
“Talking to that guy.”
My heart races. “He just asked me about tomatoes. That’s it.”
Preston doesn’t move. He just stands there, staring at me. “You were smiling at him.”
