Page 40 of Possessive Alpha

Ty, apparently, views my shiver as the perfect opportunity to tuck me closer to his side, enveloping me in a scent far more delicious than the store’s bakery department. “Better?”

“Not really,” I lie as the heat of his body chases away the shock of the AC’s icy blast. “You were showing me the list.”

“I was leading the way to the carts,” he corrects me, releasing me to snag a red plastic cart.

I guess he’s the one pushing.

“We could split the shopping. You know, tear it in half and get the groceries done faster.”

He pushes the cart toward the chiller next to the fresh veggies. “Doing it together will be faster than separately. We need butter.”

“Which kind?”

He shrugs. “The butter kind.”

“I meant salted or unsalted.” My eyes narrow. “Didn’t Regan say?”

He pulls the list from his pocket and looks at it. As I lean toward it to get a peek, he stuffs it back in his pocket. “Nope. She didn’t. Just butter.”

My suspicion grows.

Regan loves to cook. If she wanted butter, it’s because she would have needed it for a recipe. She would have written it down.

As if he doesn’t even notice my mounting suspicion, Ty grabs a pound of butter and tosses it in the cart. After darting a rapid glance at me, he snags some salted, and it joins the unsalted. “Got both kinds. Just in case.”

My brows knit together. “Hmmm.”

Ty pushes the cart away, and I reach into his pocket.

Just before I can stick my hand in, he turns around. “She needed some stuff for salad as well. You want to grab that?”

He must have noticed I was trying to stick my hand in his pocket. Right?

But his expression is innocent. Far too innocent.

“What kind of salad?” I ask, as I wonder how else I can get a peek at the shopping list in his pocket.

Again, he shrugs. “The usual kind.”

“Right.” I grab the bagged salad Regan usually gets. “Did that list have any dressing on it as well?”

It shouldn’t. I’m positive I saw two nearly full bottles in the refrigerator the other day. I wait, knowing Ty’s answer will confirm if he’s lying or telling me the truth.

“Let me check.” He digs the paper from his pocket. I wait, holding my breath as I probe his expression for any sign of deception as his eyes flick down.

Two beats later, he shakes his head and the shopping list he’s determined to hide from me disappears into the same back jean pocket. “Nope. But we do need tomatoes, though.”

I’m not convinced.

He waits, eyes as innocent as a newborn baby. “Do you want me to get the tomatoes?”

“I’ll get it,” I say.

We make our way through the store. Ty points out what we need but refuses to let me get so much as a single glance at the list. And even though I brought the credit card that Jackson let me use for pack things, Ty pays for the shopping as a teenage boy bags up our groceries.

“I have savings,” Ty says as he pushes our cart of bagged groceries out.

“From well digging?” That’s still something I’m desperate to know more about.

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