“Come on then, old man.” He resolutely turned his back on me, grabbed one of the trolleys, and entered the clothing department.
With impressive surety, Noah picked a small capsule wardrobe for himself: a couple of slacks and jeans, long sleeved shirts, sweaters, a stone-washed buttoned denim shirt that suited him exceptionally well, and some underwear.
I wished I hadn’t seen the tight black boxer shorts he added to the cart. Not knowing what he wore under his clothes would have been a small mercy.
The longer we spent in the shop, the easier it was to talk to and be around him. I’d taken over the trolley so he could get what he needed.
Cinnamon bagels landed in the cart. Ah, yes, I still remembered how much he’d always liked them. Somerset brie, cheddar, chocolate spread, some fruit and veggies, they all landed on top of his clothes, as did toilet paper, a value pack of toothbrushes, shower gel, shaving soap and a razor, and face wipes. The last thing he added were a few tins of the store brand cat food.
Noah had always been an animal lover. Of course he’d get food for the stray in the barn.
I watched him as he perused the shelves, my eyes hanging on his dark hair where it curled at his shoulder, the stubble on his cheeks, and the way he grabbed the cuffs on the way-too-long sleeves of my hoodie.
In my memory, we hadn’t been that different in height. The Noah I held onto was about fourteen, not twenty-nine, and I’d had a growth spurt after Noah left. Compared to me he was tiny. This version of him wasn’t a little boy anymore. Now, adult Noah was the stuff of wet dreams.
Damn, my tiger had the overpowering urge to keep him safe, well fed, and fucked.
“How about I cook for us tonight?” I asked out of the blue, startling the man next to me.
“You want to cook for me? At my place?” he asked, staring at me in disbelief.
Does it sound too much like a date?
“Yeah, I remember how much you sucked at cooking,” I said, trying to save the situation.
“Rude, Lew.” Noah stared at me in mock outrage.
My heart skipped a beat at the use of my nickname.
He hasn’t called me that in years.
“How about a nice bolognese?” I rasped and cleared my throat.
“Oookay?” he drawled, apparently unsure if he should take my offer seriously.
“And you wanna get that beer,” I pointed at the bottles with the stylised tiger on it. White Tiger IPA, my pride and joy—and our bestseller. “My treat.”
“What? No,” he blushed, “I—”
“You’re spending enough as it is. Wanna come along, or do you want me to pick the things for dinner real quick?”
“Oh no, I’m coming along, I’m not good at staying put.”
That much I’d noticed.
Noah followed me back through almost all the aisles to get whole grain spaghetti and tomato sauce. I picked two small courgettes, a packet of minced meat, and some grated cheese. He looked like I could have led him anywhere and he wouldn’t have noticed.
He walked behind me, and his eyes clung to my ass like he’d been given the job to never let it out of sight.
I wasn’t proud that I strutted ahead, flexing my glutes with every step to give him a show. Or that my jeans got tighter in the front.
I wrapped my tail around him and pulled him around. It might have been an error on my part but … was he flirting with me?
“The checkout’s this way, Bright.”
He blushed very prettily when I smirked down at him.
Yup, I noticed.
