Page 22 of Killer's Obsession
We each grab a shopping cart, and Memphis takes the lead, steering us toward the bedding section first. “What sheets do we need for that king bed?”
We. There it is again. That word that makes something in my chest squeeze tight.
“King size, I guess.”
She rolls her eyes. “Obviously. But what color? What material? Egyptian cotton? Bamboo? Microfiber?”
I stare at her blankly. “There are different kinds of sheets?”
The laugh that bursts out of her is worth looking like a fucking idiot. “Yes, there are different kinds of sheets.”
Well shit. Who fucking knew?
She spends the next ten minutes explaining the differences between sheet materials like she’s teaching a goddamn collegecourse on bedding. I don’t understand half of what she’s saying, but I nod along anyway, watching the way her hands move when she talks, and the way her eyes light up.
“So which do you prefer?” she finally asks.
“Whichever you think is best.” Because let’s be honest. I don’t have a fucking clue what any of the shit she just said means.
She studies me for a moment, then reaches for a set of dark gray sheets. “Egyptian cotton. High thread count. You’ll like these. They get softer with each wash.”
Soft is good.
We move through the store methodically—bedding, then bath supplies, then kitchen. Memphis picks out towels, bath mats, shower curtains, pots and pans, dishes, silverware, and a thousand other things I never would have thought to buy. Both our carts fill up quickly, and I realize we’re going to need a second trip.
“I think we need different towels,” I say, turning down another aisle. “Bigger ones.”
When Memphis doesn’t answer, I look back.
She’s not there.
A spike of panic shoots through me. “Memphis?”
Nothing.
My heart rate doubles instantly. I abandon my cart and start moving through the store, checking each aisle as I pass.
“Memphis!”
Where the fuck is she? Did someone take her? The Russians? My mind races with a dozen different possibilities.
“Memphis!” I’m practically shouting now, ignoring the startled looks from other shoppers.
I round the corner into the home decor section and skid to a stop.
There she is, standing in front of a display of curtains, holding up two different patterns, completely oblivious to my panic.
The relief that floods through me is so intense it’s almost painful. I stride toward her, my heart still hammering against my ribs.
She turns at my approach, her smile fading when she sees my expression. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, trying to steady my breathing. “Just wondering where you went.”
She’s not buying it. Her brow furrows as she studies my face. “What, Killer?”
I shake my head, not wanting to admit how fucking terrified I was. “I thought I lost you.”
She sets down the curtains and steps closer to me. “I’m not going anywhere.”
