Page 9 of Catching Feelings

“Twinsies?” The laugh that bubbles out of me is more snort than chuckle. I push around the hangers and find the same set in size nine months. “How about this one? He’ll be able to wear it this winter.”

“Good call. It’s gonna be too hot for something like this in the summer. Maybe I should get him a bathing suit?”

This man is endearingly clueless but he’s having the best time picking out toys, books, and outfits for Emmitt, and I hate to burst his bubble.

“There’s a lot of stuff in this cart. How about we hold off on the swimwear until his first birthday? I don’t think he’ll be doing too many cannonballs this summer.”

“Good point.” He pushes the cart toward the cash registers.

When he puts the four outfits and blanket I selected on the conveyor belt, I move them back and place a divider between our stuff.

“I got it, Row.” He puts the divider back.

“That’s sweet of you, but if you pay for all of this then none of the gifts will be from me.”

The corner of Miles’s lip quirks. “They can be fromus.”

He puts an extra emphasis onus,and I tell my body not to react. He’s a consummate flirt. Miles doesn’t know how to be anything but flirty and charming, and I need to keep reminding myself of that the more I’m around him.

“We can chip in for his Christmas present.” I separate our purchases again. No doubt by the time Christmas rolls around, he’ll have forgotten about this encounter.

“Sounds like a plan. When do you want to start shopping?”

“Um, in about six months.”

“What should we do in the meantime?” He slides his credit card in the machine and the cashier recognizes Miles.

“Wow, man. You’re even bigger in real life.”

Miles winks at him then directs his mischievous grin my way. “That’s what they all say.”

They make small talk about the upcoming season while the cashier rings me up, and I bag my purchases since he’s too busy talking football with Miles. Not that I mind. It’s cute watching Miles turn shy when people give him genuine compliments.

He talks a lot of crap with his friends, and even with some of the teens he’s been mentoring, but he’s genuinely sweet to his fans.

“Would you mind signing something for me?” the cashier asks.

The people in line behind us, and a few shoppers at other registers have noticed Miles, and when we head toward the exit, he’s swarmed. He takes it in stride and pays more attention to the kids, dropping down to his haunches to talk to them and pose for pictures.

A mother of two—amarriedmother, evident by the ring on her left hand—shamelessly flirts with Miles, and he treats her with respect but doesn’t encourage it. Her children are too young to fawn over an NFL star, and when she asks for a picture, she doesn’t even want them in the frame.

“Would you mind?” She hands me her phone, her eyes still locked on Miles. She bats her eyelashes so much I wonder if the falsies are going to flap off.

“Yeah. Sure.” I move my bags to my left hand and hold up the phone.

Miles reaches for the kids and props the older one on his shoulders and crooks his arm around the other, using the two-year-old as a buffer between him and the woman.

I may or may not accidentally cut out the mother in a few of the pictures, focusing more on the boys and Miles.

He hands the older toddler to his mother and returns to my side. “Have a great day,” he says, placing a hand on my lower back and ushering us out of the store.

I have to practically jog to keep up with his long strides, lest he run me over. It isn’t until we’re both in his truck that he lets out a deep sigh.

“Sorry about that.”

“What exactly are you apologizing for?” I ask as I fasten my seatbelt.

“I wasn’t expecting the circus.”

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