Page 62 of The Bodyguard Affair
“When you rolled the window down, I thought you were some creep offering me a ride or some loose candies,” I inform.
“I don’t have loose candies to offer you, unfortunately,” he says, digging around in the console between us. He extracts a worn, wrinkled ziplock bag of what looks like birdseed crushed into a fine dust. “But I do have this bag of my mom’s trail mix. Can’t confirm how long it’s been here.”
I snort, reaching for my seat belt. “That’s very generous of you, but I’m good.”
Once he confirms I’m securely fastened, he rests his ropy forearm lazily on the wheel as he pulls onto the street. “Sorry for the subpar snacks and music. This is my mom’s car, which she inherited from my grandma when she died, if you were wondering. The radio is permanently stuck on Easy Rock 103.4.”
“Honestly, I kind of love this for you. I would have guessed you’d drive a truck, or something hardcore.”
His mouth parts ever so slightly as he shoulder-checks me. “Ha, good guess. I used to drive an old Jeep, actually. But it crapped out when I first came home. It sat around all winter while I was overseas. My mom doesn’t drive anymore so I’ve been commuting in this one.”
“Well, it very much suits you. Thanks for coming and offering to help, by the way. I was really stressed-out.” That’s putting it lightly. When he called, I was close to a breakdown over almond flour, of all things. Just hearing his deep, reassuring voice was enough to put me at ease. Temporarily, at least. Because now, the nerves are bubbling to the surface in my chest like a shaken carbonated drink.
“We’ll try not to burn your apartment down.” He shoots me a quiver-inducing smile as we pull onto the highway.
The conversation is easy, like it always is. We mostly talk about work. I tell him how the gala prep is going. He tells me about his upcoming travel with Eric to Montreal and how he needs to pick up some groceries for his mom for while he’s gone anyway. It strikes me how sweet he is to his mom, despite what he told me about their relationship and his childhood. I shift into the passenger-side door until my shoulder is squished against it, trying to resist the overwhelming, unsettling urge to hug him.
Thankfully, all it takes is one glance at the Costco parking lot to evaporate all those warm, fuzzy feelings. It’s an absolute madhouse, with lines of cars zipping up and down rows in search of someone leaving. “Does this place always require police to direct traffic?” I ask genuinely, eyeing the stone-faced police officer in the intersection.
“Oh yeah. It can get pretty wild,” he replies, nodding toward the fray. “I once witnessed a fistfight over a parking spot. A guy threw his fully loaded hot dog at the car’s windshield.”
“What a waste of a hot dog.”
“That’s what I said.” He turns left, only to get honked at as we attempt to go down a lane, and then another, getting stuck behind at least five other cars vying for spots. Another loud honk pierces the air.
“Did that person honk at us? How are you so calm?”
He shrugs, entirely unfazed. “When you’ve driven in some of the places I’ve driven, a Costco parking lot in Ottawa is nothing. I take it you don’t come here often?”
“Nope. As a single person living alone, I’ve never needed to shop in bulk— Oh!” I yell, pointing a couple rows over. “There’s a spot!”
“Is your seat belt on?”
I nod and we rip over, only to be beaten out by a granny in a van. It happens at least three times before we finally manage to get a spot at the farthest edge of the lot.
“Wait, did you say you’re a Costco virgin? You’ve never been, ever?” he confirms.
“My parents couldn’t afford bulk shopping. And I tend to avoid crowds,” I say, following him through the parking lot toward the entrance.
“Ahh, that’s why you shop in the middle of the night.”
“Precisely.”
He lowers his shoulders and angles his head to the door. “Shit. Well, in that case, I feel bad dragging you here. Let’s go to Peevey’s.”
“No, it’s cool. I’ll be fine,” I say, gazing at the entryway filled with massive carts. I’ve always had anxiety about crowds, but I also know it’s good for me to get out of my comfort zone. Besides, the drive to Costco wasn’t exactly short. I don’t want to waste Nolan’s time, so I grab a humungous cart and push it through the entrance.
He saddles up beside me and inches me out of the way with his body, taking control of the cart. “I’ve got the cart, you’ll read the list of ingredients.”
I nod, scanning the vast expanse of aisles filled with everything from jumbo packs of toilet paper to fifty-gallon drums of olive oil.
“But first, we get ice cream,” he says. When I swing him a questioning side-eye, he adds, “It’s just a rule.”
We stop at an area that serves an impressive array of food, including pizza and massive hot dogs. Nolan gets us two towering,perfectly crooked soft serve cones, which he insists on paying for. “Soft serve. To dull the ache of getting your toe rammed by a gigantic cart,” he says, passing me my cone.
I thank him for the ice cream, ignoring the flutter at the base of my stomach when our fingers brush together for a millisecond. “No one rammed my toe, by the way.”
“By the end of this, someone will have. Trust me.”
