Page 86 of Rookie Recovery

I wanted to play dirty. I really, really did.

But not, and I cannot stress this enough, not in the middle of a Walmart. So I pried myself—however reluctantly—out of his grip. “Yeah, I take it they don’t have Walmart on your side of the pond, but we’re not fucking around here. There is no universe in which that’s hot.”

He let me go without a fight. I guess the vibe-read of Walmart was universal. Instead, he looped his arm through my elbow and gave my biceps a not-very-subtle squeeze under my T-shirt. “Fine. But I get to touch your giant, tattooed arms. And you are not going to abandon me.”

“Do you need a leash?” I led him down the paint aisle. “That might be more appropriate for a Walmart.”

“I thought you said we were not doing sex in the Wally?”

“Ohmygod,” I groaned. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Maybe. Can you explain more about the logic behind this place?” he asked as we approached a massive crate of watermelons marking the entrance to the grocery aisle like the gates of Argonath. “And why must you have shower curtains and cucumbers in the same hundred-meter radius?”

“What if you need both?”

His eyes were big green coins. “Why, America, why?”

“Have you really never been to a super Walmart?”

He jabbed a finger towards the refrigerated meat section on the rear wall. “You have dead animals next to skipping ropes!”

“You’re just being dramatic now.” I rolled my eyes and worked my arm out of his grip because he was getting a little handsy with my triceps. “Are you going to make me a—what was it?”

“Sunday roast. The way my mum makes it. Banging, mate.” He eyed the meat arrayed in neat, labeled rows along the back wall. “But … we trust that meat? This close to the shower curtains?”

“For fuck’s sake.” I wrapped my hand around his biceps—his arms were not small by any stretch of the imagination, and I definitely noticed—and dragged him across the store. “It’s a hunk of meat. Pick something.”

“I’ve picked my hunk.” He winked, and I groaned loud enough that the blonde woman hunched over the lamb chops four feet away gave me a once-over that might have been interest or concern.

I was concerned, to be honest. I felt like I’d come unhinged from the normal, pressed, polished, button-down-wearing, protein-shake-sipping Doctor Sullivan. I didn’t mind it, either, and that was more concerning.

“I’m going to look for carrots.” I waved and stepped backwards before he re-latched. “Bye, Bowman.”

I left him giving a very suspicious eyeball to a stack of hamburger meat. Maybe I should find an actual grocery store at some point. Bringing Bowie to the land of pre-packaging and convenience wasn’t working out with any particular amount of convenience thus far.

I nabbed a basket abandoned at the end of an aisle—neither Bowie nor I had been able to stop giggling long enough to take hold of, let alone steer, an actual shopping cart.

Was there such a thing as grocery-cart-specific PTSD? Hopefully Bowie’s roast fit in a basket; I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to handle a carriage again. And, wait, had I just considered finding a market for Bowie because I planned on regular grocery trips with him?

Why did that make my stomach feel weird and fizzy? Yes, we’d been spending a lot of time together this past month. And especially the last four days, something had shifted between us. Softened and intensified. Solidified into something … more. But what did that mean?

As I stared down into the depths of a stack of vegetables, Bowie rejoined me to heft a haunch of meat into the basket on my forearm. “Hopefully your Walmart doesn’t steer you wrong. How have you survived this long on your own?”

“Good looks and charm.” I tossed in two carrots and attempted to bring my awareness back to the bustling store. Instead, I tracked the proximity of his lithe body. “What’s next on the list?”

He reeled off a few more items, and we stumbled through the aisles until the basket was full and Bowie balanced a pile of potatoes and a chocolate bar—“Bet it’s awful”—in his arms.

Then we wound our way back through the chips to the main aisle and the front of the store—“Oh, good, pesticides! In case I needed to protect my potatoes.”

“Next time, I shop alone,” I sighed, and dumped the basket out onto the checkout conveyor belt. Bowie unloaded his items after mine while the cashier rang out the customer ahead of us.

“Could go to an actual market.” He tucked one last item in behind the chocolate, and my eyes nearly popped out of my head.

“Is that—” I lunged, and he snatched the tube out of my reach. But I’d seen enough. My voice dropped to a hiss. “Lube?”

He shoved it under the potatoes. “No.”

“Why?”

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