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She glanced at each one, trying to decide what looked the safest.
“Excuse me, are you in the queue?” a woman behind her asked.
Claire glanced to where the woman motioned forward, only then noticing the line having moved past the refrigerators.
“Oh, yeah. Sorry.”
Without thinking for fear of embarrassing herself again, Claire swiped the sandwich that looked the most neutral, grabbed a bag of chips and a bottle of water, then stepped up behind Liam.
He must have heard her movements, as he turned around in the next moment and settled his eyes on the sandwich.
“What did you decide on, then?” he asked.
“Um.” She held up her stash. “A sandwich and chips.”
His brow furrowed. “You’ll enjoy the crisps enough, but you won’t like that sandwich. You’ll be better off putting it back and getting something else up front.”
The line shifted again, and he faced forward without another word.
Claire frowned at the back of his head. Why did he do that, speak so authoritatively? Just when she was starting to like him—or tolerate him, rather—he had to go and speak all high and mightily.
“How do you know I won’t like”—she paused, looking down to read the ingredients as the line moved forward again—“rye bread, mature cheddar, and Branston pickle?”
Truth be told, she didn’t know what half those ingredients were. But she liked cheese as much as the next person, rye bread most likely tasted like wheat, and Branston pickle probably resembled dill pickles, which she enjoyed, as well.
Yeah, she’d be totally fine with this sandwich.
Liam, however, wasn’t convinced. “You won’t like it because you don’t enjoy shrimp.”
She paused, wrinkling her nose at the angled container the diagonally cut sandwich rested in. “Wait, this has shrimp in it?” Then another thought occurred. “And how do you know I don’t like shrimp?”
Had he heard her admit as much the night before?
“No, it doesn’t have shrimp in it.” He clarified. “And I know you don’t like shrimp for the simple fact that you are out here with me instead of being sick all over my mum’s house.”
Oh. That made sense. “So that means you don’t like shrimp either?”
He nodded. “I never trust anything so transparent. Person or otherwise.”
His smiling eyes almost made her forget all about how annoyed she was with him. Almost.
He faced forward again. “We seem to have similar tastes in food, which is how I know you won’t enjoy that Branston pickle sandwich. You’ll regret not putting it back. Just as you’ll regret not getting one of the hot pastries.”
Ugh. There was nothing worse than a person thinking he knew her better than she knew herself.
Gripping her sandwich tighter, she raised her chin. “I think I’ll take my chances, thank you.”
Liam merely shrugged, then approached the cashier to purchase his food.
As he ordered what she could only assume were his blessed savory pastries, Claire became distracted with the other side of the glass window, where donuts, cookies, and muffins were presented in neat, enticing rows—biscuits with a tree cutout on the top, cupcakes with red, white, and green frosting, and mince pies she’d never eaten but had only read about in Regency books.
Well, if she didn’t like her sandwich—which she would if it was the last thing she did—at least she’d have something sweet as a backup.
After Liam finished his purchase and told Claire he’d wait at the door for her, Claire moved forward with her less-than-appetizing food.
“Will this be all for you, ma’am?” a young man with a London accent asked.
“No, can I also get a…” She paused, reading out the descriptions of the pastries on the red, snowflake-covered sign. “Christmas ring bun?” Would Liam want one? Or would he think a cupcake with a plastic ring on it childish? “Actually, can I get two of those?” Better to be safe than sorry.
