He takes off his baseball cap and runs his hand through his sandy-blond hair, the damp strands brighter under an illuminatedshop sign. Doesn’t he want to get home to dry off? Get warm? I don’t understand why this is so important to him.
But if Logan wants to pay me back in expensive New York City bodega medical supplies, so be it.
“Can we make it quick?” I ask, tossing the now-contaminated bag of leftovers in a trash can. “It’s been a day.”
The three of us head down the street together. It’s the opposite direction of home, but today has already gone off the rails.
Might as well get Mistake #4 out of the way.
Chapter 3
LOGAN
You’re someone who likes to press his luck, aren’t you?” Hazel asks as she pulls a packet of cherry gummies from a shelf below the checkout counter. Her question sounds more like a frustrated comment.
“What makes you say that?” I ask, grabbing a box of cotton swabs. The bodega’s heat has finally started to permeate my cold, damp shirt and pants. Going home to change would’ve been the sensible thing to do, probably, but after everything that happened earlier, I’m not ready to say goodbye to Hazel quite yet.
“I can just tell,” she says. “For one, you wear that shirt out in public. And you probably carry too many plates and bowls from the kitchen to the living room.”
“Sometimes I even carry too many plates and bowlswhilewearing this shirt.”
She doesn’t laugh.
“Swing and a miss,” I mumble.
Hazel’s eyes flick up at me. “No, that was funny. But also, you were walking a cat on a leash. Feels a little luck press-y.”
She resumes browsing, passing the island of ready-to-go food. She turns halfway back to me. The depth of her dark-brown eyes draws me in. There’s an entire forest in them with a warmth that feels reserved for special occasions. Maybe even for special people.
I peer over the food island at her as she skims the items, seemingly distracted. Her face is illuminated from below, the light accentuating her cheekbones and full bottom lip, the dip of her Cupid’s bow. When she glances up at me again with something playful in her eyes, it nearly takes my breath away.
She’s gorgeous.
“In my defense, I’m pretty sure the smell of chicken lured him in,” I say. “Like his namesake, he can’t fully control himself.”
“Caramelized sugar can’t control itself?”
I laugh at this. “Mr. Mistoffelees is his full name,” I clarify. “His owner, Mrs. Walker, was in the original production ofCats, and because Toffee’s a tuxedo cat, she couldn’t help herself.” Hazel looks confused so I add, “Mr. Mistoffelees couldn’t fully control his magic?”
Her expression doesn’t change. “I don’t know what any of that means,” she says, walking away from me and scanning the fridge filled with beers and sodas.
I move over to the register and offload everything in my arms except Toffee. I take in the “No Smoking” and “Smile, You’re on Camera” signs next to the bodega’s social media handle advertising a chance to win a free king-size candy bar for each follow. I browse the shelving containing impulse buys. Anything to distract me from her.
“Add your cherries to the pile,” I tell Hazel when she meets me at the front. Her eyebrows shoot up skeptically when she sees the pile of items on the counter. “This is all part of fixing you up. When hydrogen peroxide touches that”—I nod at her arm—“you’re going to want something to bite down on.”
Hazel doesn’t fight this and sets the candy on the counter. As she does, she glances over the clerk’s head at the wall of medicine and pain relievers. I follow her line of sight to a sign for Advil, but there aren’t any boxes left.
“Anything I can grab you?” the clerk asks her.
Hazel shakes her head. “Oh, uh, I’m good.”
The young clerk nods to me. “Ready?” he asks as he begins scanning everything.
“One box of antiseptic ointment, please. And actually… any chance you have more Advil back there?”
“I just sold my last one,” the clerk says.
“Nothing in those boxes?” I push. “Would you mind taking a quick look? I’d really appreciate it.”
