Page 117 of This is a Kissing Book

We take a short jaunt to “The Fox Lake Market,” where I stock up on essentials like ice cream and popsicles, and he picks out sensible items like cold cuts and fruit.

As we round a corner past a pink and yellow lemonade display, I discover my new favorite thing is Linc pushing a shopping cart. It’s unexpectedly attractive. Criminally handsome. I send Oly another no-context photo. It’s of him, taken from behind while in the dairy aisle. She immediately replies with a no-context caption.

Oly: The setting of a rom-com meet-cute.

Oly: Also, where are you?

I risk walking into a pyramid of canned corn, so I hold off on replying. But then my phone pings again.

Oly: Oh, wait. That’s Linc. Let me try again.

Oly: This is the start of a legend-dairy love story!

Oly: Solid contender for the Hot Guy Grocery Store Calendar.

Oly: You’d butter believe, he’s eye-catching.

Oly: My personal favorite: They need to lower the temperature in those dairy cases, otherwise all the butter is going to melt.

I giggle. Linc looks at me over his shoulder. Although I know Oly is joking about love stories, what if?

He asks, “What’s so funny?”

“Oly thinks she’s a meme-edian.”

“Define that word.”

“Like meme plus comedian,” I tell him about our no-context photo game and, no surprise, he wants to see what I sent her.

When I resist, he gets suspicious, playfully so, but I can’t let him see her texts.

“Come on,” he says, stepping closer. “How bad could it be?”

I clutch my phone tighter against my chest. “It’s not bad, it’s just⁠—”

“Just what?” He’s enjoying this, eyes dancing with mischief. “Did you catch me picking my nose or something?”

“No!” I laugh despite myself.

“Then what’s the big deal?”

He grabs for my phone and I twist away, nearly stumbling into the sunblock products display.

“It’s silly,” I mumble, heat creeping up my neck. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.” His voice goes softer, more curious than teasing now. “I want in on your weird photo game.”

I bite my lip, glancing at the screen. There he is, completely unaware, one hand on the cart handle, the other reaching for something on the shelf. His shoulders are broad, strong, and masculine.

“You just looked …” I start, then catch myself.

“I looked what?”

Like someone I could follow through grocery stores for the rest of my life.

“You looked very focused on the yogurt cups,” I finish weakly.

He stares at me for a long moment. “You took a picture of me buying dairy?”