I shuddered at the thought. “Ew.”
He shrugged. “It’s no worse than a diseased hoof. I’ve seen some nasty shit. I just go into robot mode and do what needs to be done.”
“Having four younger brothers, I, too, have seen some nasty shit. I was never good at robot mode. I did it anyway, but with a lot of internal screaming, and a lot of external screaming, too.” I grabbed a five-pound bag of clementines and dropped them in the cart.
“The vibes want oranges?” he asked. His dark eyes sparked with amusement.
“The vibes don’twant,” I corrected him. “The vibesare.”
One corner of his mouth hitched up and he chuckled. “I’m not sure any of that was English.” But he grabbed another bag of clementines and placed it in the opposite end of the cart.
I arched a brow. “Is that on your list?” I teased.
He smirked. “The vibes are too strong to resist.”
Maybe he was referring to just the oranges, but the words felt like they were about us, too. Or about me, anyway. Because suddenly I wasn’t tired anymore. His touch on my forehead had jolted me awake like a shot of espresso and I was buzzing head to toe from it.
And that was bad. That was very, very bad.
Because these vibes? These were first-date-I-want-to-get-to-know-you vibes.
I feltgiggly. I had no business feeling giggly for Steven. I had no business laughing and joking around with him, grocery shopping together like a couple. This wasSteven. Yes, I knew he wasn’t the same guy he was a year ago, but so what? The enemy of my friend was my enemy. That was how friendship worked, right?
Between 3 a.m. texts and grocery store vibes, I had forgotten that.
Steven liked to shop the perimeter, focusing on fresh fruits, vegetables, and meats. The smell of seafood made me gag again, so he tossed bulk packages of chicken thighs and cuts of steak, and we hustled through to the breakfast aisle, which was where I sourced most of my meals anyway. I grabbed three different kinds of cereal and a package of apples and cinnamon instant oatmeal.
He didn’t say anything, but I saw him look from his side of the cart to mine and shake his head, so I threw in a box of strawberry frosted toaster pastries as well. He blanched and I grinned.
“I should have known you were a health nut,” I said, laughing.
He gave me a quizzical look as he reached for the round canister of plain, non-instant oats. The tasteless kind. “Why would you have known that?”
“You don’t get abs like that eating strawberry frosted toaster pastries,” I said without thinking, doing an air circle around his abdomen with my index finger. “You get abs like that by working out in the gym for two hours every day and eating nothing but chicken and carrot sticks.”
He looked genuinely flummoxed as he looked down at his midsection. “How do you—You were checking me out.” His head jerked up. “That night in the rain. You were ogling me while I was wet and shirtless.”
“I was not!” I protested. My face felt hot and tingly. Maybe because I was imagining it all over again. Steven, shirtless. The rain literally streaming down the indents between his muscles. “Isawyou. I didnotogle.”
His full lips tilted in a sexy smirk that made my belly flutter with something that definitely was not nausea. He reached for the powdered donuts behind me, leaning in so close that his warm breath brushed my cheek.
“You’ve got me all wrong, princess. I have a sweet tooth, and I don’t spend hours at the gym,” he murmured into my ear. Goosebumps broke out on my neck. “I don’t work out. Iwork.”
Oh, fuck.
I was so wet between my legs that all my feminism slid right out of my pussy.
“That’s, um…” I cleared my throat. “Nice.”
He tossed the donuts on his side of the cart. His lips quirked. “I’m glad you think so.”
God, he was so…smug. Self-satisfied.
“Haven’t you ever heard it’s what’s on the inside that counts?” I scoffed.
All the laughter drained from his face. Shit, I felt like I had kicked a puppy. He turned away, the muscle in his jaw popping. “Yeah, I might have heard that a time or two.”
“Steven—” I tried but stopped. What could I really say? That I forgave him for what happened with James? I didn’t. I wouldn’t hit him with my car, but we were still a long way from forgiveness. And what did it matter, anyway? Even if I forgave him, James never could, and I didn’t blame her.
