Page 105 of The Falcon and the Foe

I had this perpetual spring in my step, and after watching me dance in the aisles while stocking canned beans, my co-workers knew what was up.

At this current moment, I was putting up the store’s fall display of pumpkin-flavored everything—even pumpkin-flavored organic dog biscuits for the most spoiled pets in Sourwood.

“Cal to the register. Cal to the register,” Jasmine announced over the market loudspeaker.

I did the foxtrot mixed with the hora up to the front, yet stopped in my tracks.

Russ leaned over Jasmine’s register, resting his chin in his hand in full gossiping mode. “Did you and Amelia try that roasted chicken recipe?”

“It was incredible. I don’t know why I didn’t believe you.”

“Ye of little faith.”

“Whenever I try roasting a chicken, it always comes out dry.”

“Salt, pepper, and lemon. That’s all you need. Keep it simple.”

Halloween was too far away for me to be plunged into the Twilight Zone, yet that had to be the only explanation. I flipped on my register light. “Hi.”

“Hey, Babe.” Russ came over and gave me a kiss. “Just buying a few groceries.”

I pulled back from his tender embrace, then cast a doubtful glance between him and Jasmine. “What’s going on here?”

“What?” he asked back, trading a confused look with his new gossip girl.

“How are you two so chummy?”

“Jazz is my friend.”

“Jazz?” I pointed at Jasmine. “You said if I ever tried to call you Jazz, you’d rip my nuts off and pin them to the community bulletin board.”

She nodded. “That’s right.” She turned to Russ. “What are your plans for cooking your Thanksgiving turkey?”

“I got two words for you, Jazz: Dry. Brine.”

“Whoa. We need to dig into this.”

I cleared my throat. “Excuse me. I think my boyfriend is here to see me.”

Jasmine rolled her eyes and mock-mouthed what I just said. “So possessive.”

Russ put a hand atop hers. “We’ll talk later, Jazz.”

He swooped around to my register and plunked his basket on the wood plank. I began ringing him up.

“You don’t usually do your grocery shopping now.”

“I’m baking blondie brownies for the boys’ class Indigenous Day celebration.”

The vanilla extract and flour in his basket should’ve tipped me off. “Native Americans made blondie brownies?”

“Uh, no. But they’re delicious if I do say so myself.”

“Ah. Yes. What better way to commemorate mass genocide than with baked goods?”

Russ cracked a smile. “And maybe, just maybe, I wanted to drop in and see you.”

He caressed my finger while I scanned the bag of brown sugar, sending a current of heat to my dick. Thank goodness we had to wear aprons.

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