It’s Thursday evening and Theo and I have the most riveting evening ahead of us… The food shop.
We are in Sainsbury’s at that dangerous hour between six and half past, when everyone else has also realised they forgot something for dinner and the aisles feel like slow-moving traffic. I have a basket that is both too full and somehow still missing three essential things, and Theo is narrating the biscuit section like he’s hosting a cooking show.
“These,” he informs me, holding up a packet of chocolate digestives, “are elite tier.”
“We are not buying elite tier,” I reply, scanning a jar of passata without looking at him. “We are buying sensible tier.”
“Elite tier tastes better.”
“Sensible tier costs less.”
He considers this like it’s a moral dilemma, then sighs with exaggerated disappointment as we move on toward the bakery section.
I turn the corner too quickly and collide with something solid, warm, and very definitely not shelving. A hand catches my waist before I’ve even registered I’m off balance.
“Careful,” Rory says quietly, close enough that I feel the vibration of his voice before I properly see him. As I look up, his mouth curves in that way that makes my groin ache.
Theo’s head snaps up. “ISLA!”
Isla appears from behind Rory clutching a box of mini pizzas, and the two of them collide in a way only children can, instant and uncomplicated and oblivious to the adult electricity humming two feet away. Which leaves me and Rory standing far closer than is necessary in the middle of carbohydrates.
“You stalking me now?” I ask lightly.
“Hardly,” he replies, glancing at the shelves. “This is neutral territory.”
I bend to grab wraps from the lower shelf at the same moment he reaches for something behind me, and our shoulders brush in that small, accidental way that shouldn’t matter but absolutely does. Then his hand slides over mine where it rests on the packet. We both still. He looks down at our hands, then up at me, and there is something in his eyes that is not casual.
“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t move immediately.
“It’s fine,” I answer, and I’m not sure which part I’m referring to.
Theo and Isla are arguing about pizza toppings as though this is a matter of national importance, and we’re just there, suspended between shelves, pretending we aren’t hyper-aware of each other.
“You always this tense in supermarkets?” he asks after a moment, voice low, smirk on his face. His perfect, chiseled face.
“I’m not tense.”
“You look tense.”
“Maybe you’re standing too close.”
His eyebrow lifts slightly. “I am standing too close.”
I hold his gaze. “You could move.”
“I could.”
He doesn’t.
The air shifts, and I swallow, my eyes drifting to his lips. “You do realise,” I say, because humour is safer than honesty, “that this is wildly inappropriate flirting next to baked goods.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“You absolutely are.”
“I’m buying bread.”
“You just admitted you’re standing too close.”
