Page 36 of Love You Anyway

“I haven’t been in a store like this in years. I wanted to see all the kinds of chips there are,” I tell her, knowing I sound like an astronaut who’s just returned to Planet Earth.

“They’ve changed quite a bit,” she deadpans, mischief in her voice. “Now potato chips are no longer made from potatoes.”

“I’ve seen potato chips, and I’ve eaten potato chips. I just haven’t shopped for them.”

PJ shakes her head. “I really don’t think you’re missing anything. The only difference between this and grocery delivery is getting to push a cart around.”

With that, I change direction and drag her to the front of the store to get a cart. “Now you’re talking,” I say, sweeping her into my arms and depositing her in the basket of the cart. She squeals and hangs onto my shoulders, and for a moment, I’m tempted not to let her go.

As I lean over her curled-up body in the cart, she turns her face toward mine. The air between us stills, and it feels like the most logical thing in the world to hover there, immobile because I don’t want to back away.

I want to close the gap between us, and I watch her tongue slip out and lick her bottom lip. Does she want me to kiss her? I find myself wishing I haven’t been in a self-imposed solitude for so long. I’ve fucking forgotten what to do when a beautiful woman is this near to me—when I want her to be even closer.

Her large eyes blink and stare at me, and under the bright lights of Sunshine Foods market, my iron resolve clamps back down. I reluctantly back away and release her from my grip, noticing the corners of her mouth turn down as I do it.

She’s disappointed in the lost opportunity, or maybe I’m reading into the situation and manufacturing what I want to be there. Either way, the moment has passed.

Standing up, I hop on the ledge of the cart and let it carry us down the aisle. I feel like a preteen boy who’s about to get yelled at by an older supermarket employee, but no one is around at this hour to bother us. I pedal my foot and push us around the store, loading up the front of the cart with the kind of boxed food my organic chef never has in the house—Cheetos, Oreo cookies, and Little Debbie snack cakes.

“You’re kidding with all this, right?” PJ asks, observing my high cholesterol bounty. “When do you plan on eating it?”

“I don’t know. Later. Tomorrow…maybe I’ll bring it back to Palo Alto.”

“You do know they have grocery stores there, right? Cheetos are not a Napa Valley thing.”

“I do know. This is much more fun.”

She swivels around to sit cross-legged in the cart and watches me browse the snack aisle. My brow furrows as I study the variety of chips. “Do you have a favorite?” I ask.

“I like a classic chip. No salt and vinegar or barbecue. Plain Lays are good. Maybe Ruffles for a little more crunch.”

I grab two bags of plain Lays chips, and she looks at me quizzically. “Don’t buy what I like. Buy whatever you’ve beencraving while your fancy chef cooked your free-range organic egg whites.”

I won’t be deterred by her resistance. As we move through the aisles, I do pick out some basic cheese, ordinary sliced bread, and a jar of peanut butter. Yet each time I choose something, I subtly ask for advice or her opinion and either grab something she likes or file the information away for a later time and place.

I have no idea if I’ll ever be in a position to eat snack food with her after this week, but a part of me is hopeful.

Chapter

Twelve

PJ

“I’m pretty sure we can watch this back at my house,” I tell Colin, gesturing to the marquee above the movie theater entrance, which announces a summer rom-com festival of classics. Today’s film isBringing Up Babywith Katherine Hepburn and Cary Grant.

He shakes his head. “I want to sit in a theater, eat popcorn and Junior Mints, and watch it on the big screen.”

I can’t argue with a man who knows what he wants.

Even if I’ve already seen the movie. Twice.

We get our tickets and walk into the small lobby. Colin holds the door open and guides me inside with a hand on the small of my back.

My pulse quickens, and I take in a sharp gulp of air. His light touch on my back has all my senses firing. It’s like his hand is the centerpiece of a chemical reaction, radiating electricity in all directions from the point of contact.

OMG, after one day with him, I’m a pseudoscientist.

I walk toward the concession stand, joints stiff and a frozen smile plastered on my face because inside, I’m losing my shit. How can a man’s hand feel so freaking good?

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