Page 66 of The Guy in the Alley

Gio muttered that he was glad to be retiring soon, and he handed over the car keys to Ben before he called it a day. At…noon.

“How are you getting home?” Ben asked.

Gio was already walking off. “Ever heard of the train?”

I smirked.

Ben was amused too, and then it was just the two of us.

“You need a hand with the shopping?” he asked. “I don’t have anywhere to be for another hour.”

“Hell yeah, you can push the cart.” I was suddenly happier about this outing. “They have insane deals on peanut butter, Barilla pasta, and Rice Krispies.” And some other shit.

We headed inside, with Ben dutifully pushing the cart, and he let me ramble about the next few services’ menus. On Sunday, I was thinking mac and cheese with bacon, ’cause we’d been stocking up on cheese, and I had collected sixteen BOGO coupons for bacon from Aldi’s weekly ad. I’d handed them out to our staff, so everyone had come to work with bacon. Each ad was limited to four packs, but I could get creative.

“And Rice Krispie treats for the kids,” I added. “My sister’s coming over tomorrow to help me make them.”

Obviously, I’d check if store-brand cereal was cheaper first, but sometimes you struck gold in the world of coupons.

“Then next Thursday, I’m thinking hot dogs to celebrate the new season starting,” I went on. “I ordered extra fries from our suppliers too.”

Would this be the Cubs’ season? Well, I’d be a shitty fan if I said outright it was unlikely.

We went down the aisle where the peanut butter was, and just as I started counting on my fingers, I remembered I had a math whiz with me.

“How many tubs do I need?” I asked him. Because they were actual wholesale tubs. “At this rate, we’re pushing three hundred servings twice a week, and I think we’ll do ramen and PB&J sandwiches the Sunday after this one.”

Ben stepped closer and grabbed one of the tubs, and he checked the label. “It literally states fifty servings, Trace. You need six of them.”

Oh. I scowled. How the fuck was I supposed to know?

I started filling the cart. “Thank you.”

He chuckled and draped an arm around my shoulders. “You’re cute, you know that?”

Oh, hell fucking no. I straightened in an instant as a bolt of…something…shot through me, stripped me of all filters, and let the bruised ego out to play.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” I told him. “You’re welcome to stay with me and be my friend, but you don’t get to cozy up with me like this and call me cute unless it comes with a big side of dick. Are we clear?”

Aside from a second-long flash of surprise when his eyebrows hitched, he remained his frustratingly unreadable self—and he stayed close too. He kept his arm around me. He maintained eye contact.

“Is that what you want? A big side of dick?”

Hnnghff.

His voice in that low tone robbed me of most of my fight as a violent shiver rolled through me.

I swallowed dryly. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Yeah. I am, Trace.” He let his arm drop and positioned himself right in front of me instead, and he was essentially towering over me. “When were you forthcoming about wanting anything other than friendship? How am I supposed to know what you want when you’ve been distant all week?”

I opened my mouth to let my anger out, but it was shoved back when my brain replayed the question. You’ve been distant all week. Fuck. Oh fuck. How am I supposed to know what you want? Motherfucker. I’d been so cooped up in my head, and I was acting as if he could read my fucking mind. Jesus Christ. Cue mortification.

It wasn’t only this week either. Other than the night we’d fucked back in January… I hadn’t shown my interest in the slightest.

So, uh…maybe I had sharing problems too…?

Maybe.

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