Page 9 of Chosen

“And in the middle of the woods like this?” I said, still in disbelief. “It feels like we’re in a whole different world out here.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“No. It’s a wonderful thing,” I replied. “It’s a magical thing. The exact kind of thing I came to Roanoke for.”

“In that case…” Damon smiled as he stopped in the middle of an aisle. He reached for a red potato before holding it up between us. “How do you feel about roasted potatoes?”

“I think you’re going to need a few more than that if we both plan on having dinner tonight.”

He grinned before he grabbed a paper bag, filling it with a few potatoes. He then grabbed some green beans, seemingly for good measure. “And? Any thoughts about the main course?”

“Well, seeing how we’re doing a potato and green bean combo…,” I hummed, as I looked around the store. “How do you feel about burgers?”

“Beef, bison, or turkey?”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that in my life.”

“You should get used to that kind of question around here.” Damon chuckled. “And get used to people judging you a little bit if you go for the turkey option.”

“I think I’ll go for the tried-and-true beef, please.”

“Sounds perfect.” Damon started to head for another part of the store, and I followed close behind him. A few moments later, and he was handing me a pound of beef, all wrapped up like it’d come straight from the butcher shop.

“What were you thinking about for the drinks portion of the night?” Damon asked, while casually putting hamburger buns and various toppings into the paper bag. “Because I’m more of a whiskey guy myself, but since I’ll be a guest at your place—”

“I could hang with whiskey.”

Damon shook his head. “I don’t want you drinking whiskey just because I’m drinking whiskey. You should get something you actually want to drink.”

Shit.

My heart fell right into the pit of my stomach as I looked back at Damon.

It was finally happening.

I was finally about to completely embarrass myself in front of the Mountain Man.

I was never self-conscious about my choice of drink when I was in Atlanta, mostly because no one was ever looking too closely, and even if they were, I knew they wouldn’t care. I’d gotten too used to being generally accepted for my choices, for no one giving me a strange look if I made the mistake of choosing turkey over beef or bison.

“Sam? You okay?” Damon asked, concern lining his voice.

“Do you think they have peach Moscato?” I replied, my tone slightly trembling. Depending on Damon’s response, I was ready and prepared to tell him that I was just kidding around, that I would never ask for something like that when it was obviously a night for whiskey and vodka—

“I’m pretty sure they do.” Damon nodded before he moved toward another aisle. Before I knew it, he was handing me a bottle from the shelf. “I think this is the only brand they have. Would this work?”

“Uh, yeah. It would. Thanks.” I was stunned by Damon’s lack of judgment as I took the bottle into my grip.

“You look shocked.” He smirked. “Surprised they have that out here?”

“More like I definitely thought you were going to say something about my choice of drink.”

“Really? Why?”

“Because you’re so manly,” I murmured. “And Moscato is not that.”

“Sam,” Damon started, already grinning, “believing that what you drink makes a difference in how manly you are? That’s so archaic I don’t even want to think about it.”

“But that thing you said earlier, about the turkey—”

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