Page 10 of Just My Luck

I underlinedcoconutand mulled over that idea as I walked.

Coconut and chili pepper. Cardamom? Lemongrass?

Most ideas were random thoughts that would never come to fruition, but I knew inspiration could strike at any time and I would be ready. I tucked the notepad back into the front pocket of my jeans as I approached the sidewalk that would take me east through downtown. I paused to consider my destination. South Beach was already full of tourists soaking up the late spring sun. Downtown was slowly shifting from day-trippers and shopping to coastal nights out on the town. Gawking stares and fearful eyes held little appeal.

I’d decided to turn back and head north toward the brewery to head home when Sloane’s rusted navy-blue car caught myeye. It was parked outside of Wegman’s Grocer, an overpriced convenience grocery shop for tourists too hurried to head a few blocks over to the grocer the rest of us used.

Curiosity got the best of me, and I shifted directions, pounding up the pavement toward downtown. When I reached the storefront, patrons were milling around inside. I didn’t recognize anyone outside of the checker working the register. Despite my anonymity, wary glances still melted over me as I walked down the aisles.

I pushed a cart, aimlessly assessing the overpriced items.

Why are you even here?

I tossed a box of cereal into the cart and a can of ranch-style beans before rounding a corner and coming to an abrupt stop. At the end of the aisle, I spotted Sloane hunched over a small figure—her son, I presumed—while her little girl stood next to her, silently bawling her eyes out.

I scanned the store—was no one else seeing this?

Despite Sloane’s obvious crisis, not a single person was stopping to ask whether she was okay or needed help. Indecision gnawed at me. The Sloane I knew was confident and a spitfire. She didn’t need some asshole coming to her rescue. Hell, she probably didn’t even need help in the first place.

I slowly made progress toward her, keeping my gaze impassive and discreet. Sure enough, the little girl had hot tears streaming down her face as one hand covered her mouth to muffle her sobs. The young boy was in the fetal position, gently rocking on the floor as Sloane rubbed his back and whispered to him.

“Please, baby. We have to get up. You’re safe.” Her voice was rough and thick with unshed tears. “I need you to get up, Ben. You’re too big for me to carry.”

Sloane’s shopping cart was haphazardly stopped, blocking the aisle. It was plumb full of what I assumed was their foodfor the week. The young boy continued to cry, his wails getting louder and drawing more and more attention.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Sloane looked around, her eyes pleading. Her attention returned to her son as she wound her arms around his middle and attempted to pick him up. The kid wasn’t big, but Sloane was unable to get his deadweight to budge.

A sorrowful sob escaped her and ripped my chest open. Without thinking, I abandoned my cart and closed the distance between us. As my footfalls drew closer, her eyes whipped up, rimmed in red.

I paused in front of the boy. “Can I get him?”

Shock flitted over her petite features before her eyes went wide and she nodded. I took the single dip of her chin as permission and bent to scoop the boy in my arms. He was light, and I adjusted him against my chest.

“You’re all right, man. I’m just going to help your mom get you to the car.” Soft muffled tears were his only response. I turned to the little girl, whose face was splotchy and red. She looked at me, not with fear, but with awe. Something shifted, tight and uncomfortable under my skin, but I held out one hand.

Without hesitation, the little girl slipped her hand into mine. I didn’t look back as I walked the children straight toward the exit, Sloane right behind me.

As I neared the checkout, I caught the eye of the checker. “Sloane’s cart is in aisle seven. Bag it up and send the bill to the brewery. Have the groceries delivered to the Robinson place.”

The wide eyes of the checker stared back at me.

“Got it?” I asked with irritation.

“Yep. Yes. Got it,” the checker stammered.

Without looking back, I walked through the automatic doors of the grocery store and toward Sloane’s car. The boy in my armsclung to my neck, and the little girl’s hand was tiny in mine, so I tried my best to keep my grip firm but gentle.

When we got to her car, Sloane moved around me to unlock the door and open the back seat. I offered the little girl a flat smile that I hoped wasn’t a grimace. Her tears had dried, and her sad smile tore at my heart. She climbed over the seat and settled into the back. I placed the boy on his feet. He didn’t look up from the concrete, so I simply gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and turned.

About to walk away, Sloane’s voice called to me. “Wait.”

Cautiously, I looked over my shoulder, bracing for a quick poke or witty response from her. Instead, she tucked her son into the car, fastened his seat belt, and gently closed the door. I watched her every move. In two steps, she surged forward, wrapping her arms around me.

My arms were pinned to my sides by her hug. Her small stature was dwarfed by my mass, but she squeezed. “Thank you.”

The broken sadness in her voice nearly killed me. I bent my head down, reluctantly accepting her gratitude and stealing a whiff of her hair.

When she released me, I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”

---