“If I get arrested, it’s definitely not because I ate a bun I’m going to pay for,” I inform him. “It’d be for?—”
He covers my mouth with his hand before I can finish the sentence. More like half of my face. Christ, the man has big hands.
“Don’t tell me about your illegal activities.”
I smirk, mumbling nonsense until he removes his hand.
“Says the guy who looks like an extra fromSons of Anarchy,” I tease.
He rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue the point.
“Eat. The. Hot. Dog.” I hold it out to him, punctuating each word. “Please. I promise it’ll change your life.”
He stares at it like I’m offering him contraband. “This feels wrong.”
“Most good things do.” I shoot him a wink. “Now eat it before I make a scene.”
His jaw twitches as he glances down the aisle. There’s a family of five comparing loaves of wheat bread and an elderly woman feeling up pretzel buns.
“You’re already making a scene.”
“Oh, this?” I gesture at our aisle picnic. “This is nothing. You want a scene, I can give you a scene, baby cakes.”
The nickname earns a real glare, but aggravating him is so much fun.
Finally, he sighs and takes the hot dog. The moment he bites into it, his glower softens. He chews slowly, considering.
“Well?” I prompt.
“It’s… good,” he admits reluctantly, like the words physically pain him.
“It’s the best hot dog you’ve ever had and you know it.”
“I’m not saying that.”
“Your face is saying it.”
He takes another bite, bigger this time.
I grin triumphantly. “See? Worth the moral ambiguity.”
“We’re paying for these buns,” he mutters.
“Obviously. I’m not a monster.” I give him a pointed look. “Unlike someone who steals parking spots from minivans.”
“That was strategic positioning.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night.”
After we finish our hot dogs—and pay for the buns so Cameron can relax—we grab a cart and weave through the warehouse aisles, heading toward the items I’ve listed in the aptly namedMetroMart Restocknote on my phone.
Without being asked, Cameron pushes the cart and nods, signaling that he’ll follow me. That simple gesture makes mylips curve into a smile. He trails behind me through the baking section and loads the cart with the bags of sugar I need, not once complaining about the weight or quantity.
“How many cookies do you plan to bake?” he asks, eyeing the growing pile.
“I’m pulling back on cookie orders for the next few weeks, but I’d make an exception for you if you’re interested in cock-shaped confections.” I waggle my brows.
“Why are you pulling back?”
