Page 233 of Vicious Temptation

“A few weeks.”

“A few weeks? And you’re just now telling me?” She sighs dramatically. “I mean...I get it. I was in your shoes once. I know what it’s like to want to keep something that special to yourself for a little while. But I’m still going to kill you for not telling me sooner.”

I laugh with her and start moving again, the cart screeching its way down the aisle.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’ll catch you up if you come visit.”

“That sounds like blackmail.”

“It’s only blackmail if it’s something you don’t want to do. So, what are you really saying, Valentina Belova?”

“Are you trying to steal my wife from me again?” Maksim’s gruff voice carries through the phone, making me grin.

“You’ve had her long enough. I want my girl back, Maxy,” I tease.

We spend another ten minutes going back and forth before my wrist starts protesting all the multitasking. After a reluctant goodbye, I tuck my phone into my crossbody, curse my cart for the hundredth time, and head off in search of the last ingredient.

Naturally, I find it sitting on the top shelf.

I don’t consider myself short, but this would be a great time to have my giant boyfriend around.

Planting one foot on the bottom rack, I push myself up, stretching for the jar. My fingertips skim the glass, but I can’t get enough of a grip to pull it down. When I drop back to the floor, I land harder than intended and knock into my cart, sending it rolling straight into another shopper’s heel.

“Fuck, I’m sorry!”

The man turns around with his jaw clenched, clearly ready to let me have it. But the moment he sees me, the irritation disappears.

“You’re her,” he says, sounding a little too excited.

With all the shit going on in my life, I have no idea which version of me he’s talking about. He could mean the street racer, the badass bitch from the highway massacre, or even the tattoo artist.

“The girl from the mugshot.”

Oh, hell. He means that Remi.

I don’t believe in entertaining strange men just to be polite, and I sure as hell don’t owe this one anything, especially if he was one of the creeps leaving crude comments under that photo. I made the mistake of reading through them that night, and the deeper I scrolled, the worse they got.

Pretending he no longer exists, I turn my attention back to the stubborn jar.

“Hey, it’s you, isn’t it? Remi Isabel Cain?”

Fuck me.

His footsteps come up behind me.

“Don’t,” I grit out.

“Oh, come on.” He moves even closer until I catch the harsh scent of his cologne. “I hear you like to drive fast. I got a ride for you.”

The shit that falls out of some men’s mouths will never cease to amaze or disgust me. I’ve heard it all, but hitting on a complete stranger in the middle of a grocery aisle with a line like that is a new low.

The problem with being the kind of person who doesn’t take shit from anyone is that practicing self-control in public can be such a bitch. I could teach him a lesson, bruise his balls or his ego, or maybe both. I could also say nothing, grab my fucking jar, and get the hell out of here.

Growth, Remi.

I cut him a glance and finally grab what I came for.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”