Page 23 of Coffee Shop Girl
Forcing my shoulders back, I grabbed a box of plain Cheerios and quickly nabbed a Sugary Flakes after it. Ellie would go for those. Lizbeth ate almost anything. He eyed it, then me. His amusement made it hard for me not to roll my eyes. He had flecks of olive in his golden irises.
“If you’re going to eat cereal,” I said out of sheer nerves, “don’t go for the sugary crap. Plain Cheerios is the way to go.”
He lifted one eyebrow in interest. “Oh?”
“Sugar. Yuck.”
“That is very un-American of you. No breakfast? No sugar? Who are you?”
A smile lit up his face. Very unfair of him. It was almost impossible to focus with something that gorgeous staring at me. I shoved my cart down the aisle, trying to get away from the scent of pine and the urge to explain myself.
“I don’t like sugary things,” I said over my shoulder. “Sweet is not my jam.”
He caught up to me with surprising speed.
“Then what do you like?” he asked, idly moving next to me as he perused the opposite shelf. Oatmeal. How very ... bland. He tossed a round container of old-fashioned oats into the cart, followed by a jar of agave.
Intriguing.
“Guess,” I said.
His lip twitched as he surveyed my cart. So far, I’d gathered only toilet paper, cards, cantaloupe, and cereal. Milk and eggs were next. Bread was always safe. The girls had to like pizza. I wracked my brain but couldn’t recall anything special we’d eaten when I visited Mama. She’d always ordered out, sometimes making homemade burritos or breakfast for dinner.
“If it’s not sweet that you like,” he said, “I’ll guess salty. Occasionally sour.”
“Maybe,” I drawled.
He fist-pumped. “Nailed it.”
Unfortunately, spot-on, but he didn’t need to know that. Chocolate wasn’t my thing, either; something I’d always been grateful for. I had Mama’s rounded hips that didn’t need help. But sour straws? Those I could deal with all day, every day.
He grinned, drawing far too much attention to that perfect beard and set of firm lips. “I’m right,” he said matter-of-factly. “You know I’m right. Again.”
I ignored the tacked-on ending and kept going. The subtle jab there wasn’t lost. I didn’t try to correct him, afraid he’d bring it back up.
The dairy aisle loomed straight ahead, providing a perfect escape. While I tossed a half gallon of whole milk—we had limited fridge space—and some eggs inside, he grabbed shredded cheese and precooked, shelled hardboiled eggs. Containers of spinach, goat cheese, and an assortment of peppers filled the rest of his cart. He’d probably go for grilled, skinless chicken next.
Although he finished first, he lingered. “You?” I asked as he started cruising next to me. “Sweet or salty?”
“Sweet. It’s my weakness.”
“Only weakness?”
He laughed. We pushed our carts down the next aisle in tandem, moving slowly. I acted as if I were totally involved in which kind of cheese slices to get the girls, buying myself a few minutes to stop looking at him and let my heart slow down. He leaned against an open freezer to wait.
“Well,” he drawled, “one could consider my prosthetic a weakness.”
The tone of his voice was only slightly probing, as if he were testing something. Setting it out there to gauge my response. Dad had a different approach with his leg. He’d take it off and try to hit me with it sometimes. People often got weird around him, so he loved making them feel even more awkward. Then he’d break the tension with a laugh and the story of how it happened.
The memory made me smile.
“Depends on how you defineweakness.” I snatched a package of cookie dough—Lizbeth’s favorite—from the case and tossed it inside. He studied it, then me, then straightened as I kept walking.
“Sugar is my ultimate weakness, but doughnuts are a close second.”
“Same thing! You have to give me a surface one and a deep one.”
“Have to?”
