Page 30 of Blood and Buttercups

“When was this?”

“Do you remember the day you found me at the gas station?”

He gives me a look that says there’s no way he would forget that. And of course he wouldn’t, even if I sort of wish he would.

“It was the evening before that,” I say.

“You went on a date the day after your boyfriend was murdered?”

“Ex-boyfriend—and I didn’tknowthen. I found out the morning after. And yes, we had just broken up, but hecheatedon me.” I glance around, ensuring no one is nearby, and then lower my voice. “Was I supposed to go through a mourning period?”

“No.”

This whole situation is humiliating. I follow Noah to the checkout lane, wanting to disappear. Date attacks, drug-dealing exes, mystery illnesses—how is this my life?

“Give her my discount, Kella,” Noah says to the young woman behind the register.

Completely ignoring me, she flutters her eyelashes at the grocers’ son. “Sure, Noah.”

He’s oblivious, poor girl. She hides her disappointment, her gaze on the parade of beef making its way across the conveyor belt.

“Thanks,” I say to him after we return to his SUV. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“What can I say? Our grocery store has killer customer service.” He gives me a wry look that on any other day, in any other circumstance, I might confuse for flirtatious.

I laugh, rubbing my neck, feeling for the bite—as seems to be my habit now.

We don’t talk much on the way back to my house. Noah seems lost in thought, and my mind keeps wandering as well.

They caught the guy who murdered Kevin. It really was a drug deal gone wrong. How is that possible?

“Thanks for today,” I say when Noah pulls in front of my house, grabbing the grocery bags. “You want dinner? Cow with a side of beef broth?”

“I have plans.”

“Oh.” Right, of course. He doesn’t want to hang out with me all day. Trying not to look disappointed, I joke, “And here I thought you were a loner.”

He frowns as he studies me from the driver’s seat, like maybe he doesn’t think I can survive on my own. I suppose I haven’t done anything that would convince him otherwise. “Don’t overcook the steaks.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I’m almost to the front door when Noah calls, “Hey, Piper.”

I look back and find him leaning out the window.

“Don’t forget to lock your door,” he says. “And call me if you need me.”

Well. That’s sort of sweet.

“I don’t have your number,” I remind him.

“You can reach me at the store.”

Okay, sweet-ish. Not so sweet he wants to give me his contact info. Heaven forbid I get the wrong idea.

I have the sudden urge to explain to him that I’mnormal—thatdespite all the evidence to the contrary, I lead a very wholesome life.

But it’s too late now. He’s already pulling out of my drive.

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