Page 23 of Catch
“Well, here.” She plucked a bag from the roll, opened it with ease, and took the apples from under my arms and chin before sliding them inside. “Let me.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
“No problem at all,” she chuckled, tying a neat knot at the top. “What are you planning to make?”
“An apple pie.” My lips curved. “My mama taught me years ago. I haven’t made one in a while, but I think it’s time to see if I remember.”
“Oh, I love apple pie! Don’t forget to use unsalted, cold, cold butter.”
She was right. Unsalted. And I had no idea if Miles had that at the house. I nodded and pointed toward the dairy aisle. “Good call. I better grab some while I’m here.”
Before I could slip away, she touched my arm again, her warm eyes meeting mine.
“And don’t forget to grate the cinnamon,” she added softly. “Makes all the difference in the world.”
I swallowed, my chest tightening. She was right again. A fresh pang of homesickness settled in, and I thought about calling my mama. When I was ready to get back to being Loxley, the first thing I was changing was how often I called home.
With that thought, and the right ingredients in my arms, I headed toward the checkout.
The line wasn’t long, but I found myself standing behind a girl about my age, her phone pressed to her ear as she idly poked at a tabloid in the checkout display. My own face stared back at me from the corner of the cover.
"Diva Demands Do-Over!"
For the love of God.
Even I was curious what that meant. Whatever it was, it wasn’t true, but I had to admit, the absurdity of those storiessometimes gave me a good laugh. I was just about to grab a copy when the girl in front of me reached for the same one.
“Loxley Adams,” she muttered into the phone, dragging a manicured nail across my face. “How about that?”
I stiffened. I almost responded with, “Like what?” Then I remembered she wasn’t talking to me. She was talking about me.
“The color of her hair,” she clarified to whoever was on the phone. “It’s platinum. I bet the lady down at Tunes & Tresses could match it.”
The line moved forward, and she tossed the tabloid onto the conveyor belt along with the rest of her groceries.
Then she laughed.
“Look, I bet Loxley’s somewhere in Mexico with her feet up, eating only the brown M&Ms and demanding peacocks wake her up every morning with a soft caw.”
My snort was loud. Too loud.
“I envy her,” she told me, smiling, like that somehow made her assumptions more reasonable. “I’d trade places with her so fast. The least I could do is have that hair color.”
I forced a nod, hoping she’d go back to her phone call, but she lingered, staring at my ponytail just a little too long.
Shit.
“Got it done at ‘Chop It Like It’s Hot’ in Jefferson,” I blurted, thinking as quickly as I could. “Check them out. Tell ‘em Belle sent ya.”
Her eyes lit up. “I’ll do that.”
She paid for her things and walked off, still rambling into her phone about this amazing salon she had to check out. I had no idea if Jefferson was a real place, and I was fairly certain there wasn’t a salon called Chop It Like It’s Hot, but that was no longer my problem.
I had my apples, my cinnamon and butter, and it was time to get the hell back to Miles’ house.
Sliding back into Miles’ Jeep, I shook off the lingering adrenaline from almost being caught. I’d pulled off being invisible and everything had gone perfectly.
Until I reached for the ignition and found nothing.
