I glance at him, wondering if he even realizes what he just did, and how effortlessly he shields me from a simple, uncomfortable question, without even seeming to try. And I feel that weird, warm bubble in my chest that’s equal parts annoyance, respect, and something I’d rather not name.
By the time we’re loading everything into my SUV, I’ve argued about the weight of a watermelon, the moral implications of pre-packaged salad, and whether carrots should be counted individually or by bunch. He’s steady, unfazed, somehow making it feel like we’re a team, even in this tiny, ridiculous battle of wills.
“You know,” he says as he sets the last bag in the trunk, “you’re absurd. But not entirely unmanageable.”
“Absurd is my brand,” I mutter, tugging my cap lower, trying not to melt.
He pauses, looking at me. “You’re outlandish,” he says softly, and then adds, “I like it.”
I shove my hands into my jacket pockets, trying to act like I don’t want to lean closer. “And you’re smug. Very intimidating.”
“Intimidating?” he asks, eyebrow quirked, amused. “I’m not intimidating. I’m… politely terrifying.”
“Right,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Polite. Sure. That’s exactly it.”
He laughs quietly, the kind of laugh that rumbles low in his chest, and I catch myself staring a moment too long. Focus, Lucky. Groceries. Panic. Not… whatever the hell that is.
“Next time,” he says, still smirking, “we’re bringing a cart.”
“Next time there won’t be a next time,” I snap, half-joking, half-serious, and then I giggle at my own dramatic flair. I make a secret note to ask Banks to arrange one of those online grocery deliveries to the lake house.
“Right,” he says, clearly not buying it. “You sure about that?”
I huff, tugging the brim of my cap lower, trying to hide my grin. “Positive. Very.”
“Yup, ridiculous.”
I snort, flipping him off playfully even though my hands are full. “Don’t push your luck, Maddox.”
“Too late,” he says, smiling like he knows he’s won.
I throw my hands up, laughing. He leans against the SUV, watching me, hands crossed, the picture of calm amusement. And for a second, standing there in the small-town parking lot with him, groceries between us, it doesn’t feel like panic or static. Just… normal.
Well, our version of normal.
And maybe, just maybe, I don’t hate it.
I sit on the edge of my too-stiff couch, staring at a mug of instant coffee like it owes me answers. Small-town life is hard. Hard and quiet and judging. I’ve lived my whole adult life in chaos, noise, lights, deadlines, and now I’m supposed to… blend in?
I give up and grab my phone. If anyone can sympathize with my spectacular failure at domesticity, it’s Banks.
“Banks,” I say, barely holding back a laugh that’s more panic than humor. “I am useless. Absolutely useless at this lifestyle. I can’t even pick a damn vegetable without nearly committing murder in aisle two.”
He laughs, loud and familiar, through the speaker. “I always knew you’d fail at a quiet life. Did you even try to talk to the neighbors yet?”
“Oh, I did,” I say, face heating. “And it was… fine. Except I nearly strangled someone over their cat. And there’s Ethan and Lily.”
There’s a pause on the line. “Ethan?”
“Yes, Ethan.” I sigh, leaning back dramatically. “Tall, British, dry as toast, secretly terrifying but somehow… keeps me from losing my mind in public. He’s good at chopping wood, strong as an ox.”
Banks chuckles again. “And Lily?”
“Sweet kid,” I admit, despite myself. “His daughter. Patient. Polite. The only human alive who can stand me for more than five minutes without me feeling judged.”
“Mother around?”
“They live next door. I’ve only seen them in and out, like ghosts or highly responsible sitcom characters. Either she doesn’t exist or doesn’t exist with them.”
