Page 59 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"My mom's a chef. She taught me all the tricks." Her hand lingers on mine longer than necessary, the casual touch sending warmth up my arm. "What else is on your list?"

I glance down at my phone. "Coffee, pasta, something green that won't die in my fridge before I remember to eat it."

She laughs, moving toward the produce section with confident steps. "Spinach," she decides, selecting a bag. "You can freeze it if you don't use it all. Tasteless in smoothies too."

"Look at you," I nudge her with my shoulder, enjoying her being all domestic and stuff. It's hot as hell, hearing her talk about food and its properties. She's clearly into cooking and health. I think I just learned her passion: food.

"Don't get used to it," she warns, but her smile contradicts her words. "I'm only doing this because your fridge was so sad it made me physically ill. My mom may be a chef, but I barely know how to cook."

I watch her carefully, aware of what she's doing. She's giving me the perfect display of humbleness. I would put money down that she actually knows how to cook and acting as if it's not a big deal.

"Leftover pizza and protein shakes are acceptable staples," I argue, following her down the cereal aisle.

"For college freshmen, maybe." She picks up a box of sugary cereal, examining the nutrition label with exaggerated disapproval. "How are you an athlete eating this?"

"My superior genetics compensate for my terrible diet." I snatch the box from her hands, dropping it into the cart. "Some of us need simple pleasures in life."

"Oh, I can think of simpler pleasures than processed sugar." Her voice drops lower, eyes meeting mine with unmistakable intent.

"Grocery store, Saylor," I remind her, though I can't help leaning closer. "Public place."

"Right," she agrees, not moving away. "Very public."

We stand there, suspended in the moment, surrounded by strangers going about their mundane shopping while something electric passes between us. In this fluorescent-lit, utterly ordinary setting, I realize that I'm falling for her — not just physically, not just as a forbidden thrill, but deeply, completely, in a way I've never fallen for anyone before.

The realization should terrify me. Instead, it fills me with a calm certainty, like discovering something I've always known but never articulated.

"What?" she asks, noticing my expression.

"Nothing," I answer. "Just thinking that grocery shopping has never been this fun before."

Her smile — quick, genuine, a little shy — makes my chest tighten. "Wait till you see what I can do with pasta."

Wait, maybe the humbleness isn't all there. "Are you offering to cook for me?"

"Maybe." She takes the cart, wheeling it toward another aisle like she knows exactly where she's going. "That was one of your conditions, wasn't it? Date nights?"

"It was." I catch up to her, hand finding the small of her back naturally. "I just didn't expect you to fulfill it so…happily."

"Disappointed?" she teases.

"The opposite." I lean in closer, voice dropping to ensure only she can hear. "Watching you in my kitchen? Might be my new favorite fantasy."

The blush that spreads across her cheeks is immensely satisfying. "Pasta," she reminds herself, grabbing a box from the shelf without looking at it. "We're shopping for pasta."

"Right," I agree, enjoying her flustered state.

We continue through the store, and she convinces me to buy actual vegetables. I persuade her that chocolate ice cream is a dietary essential. We debate the merits of various bread types with ridiculous intensity, draw strange looks when we dissolve into laughter over absolutely nothing in the spice aisle.

At the checkout, I insist on paying despite her protests. "You're cooking," I remind her. "I provide the ingredients."

"Fine," she relents, helping bag our purchases. "But I expect deep appreciation for my culinary efforts."

"I'm known for my appreciation skills," I assure her, earning another blush that makes the elderly cashier hide a smile.

As we load the bags into my car, as I watch her tuck her hair behind her ear while debating the optimal route back to my place.

"You good?" she asks, catching me watching her.

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