“Getting groceries.” I turn off the van and climb out, looking around to make sure no one’s watching us. I haven’t seen anything suspicious today, but I’d be stupid to get complacent. “Let’s go.”
She hops down and comes around.
“Stay close. Follow directions. Show me I can trust you.”
She lets out a little huff of indignation. If she was going to try something, she would’ve done it a long time ago. I know that. But I don’t trust anything anymore.
“Get a cart.”
She shoots me a withering look. “Are you going to tie me to it, too?”
My dick twitches at the thought. “Don’t tempt me, Curls.”
“Oh, is it Curls now? I thought I was Flowers.”
I ignore her, mostly because I’m way over my daily quotient on words. My throat is literally scratchy from talking so much today. Hooking my fingers around the front of the cart, I lead her toward the toiletries aisle. I find a toothbrush and toothpaste and a bag of razors. When I toss the box of condoms in the cart, she takes notice.
“You’re just assuming we are going to have sex again? What if I want to go back to my no sex rule?”
“Okay.”
“Why do you say okay like you don’t believe me?”
I stop the cart and turn to face her. She’s so damn beautiful, even when she’s snippy. “Take it easy, Flowers. I’m gonna respect your decision on whatever you want in that regard.”
That doesn’t calm her down. In fact, she gives the cart a push, forcing me to move out of the way or get hit. I walk beside the cart as she marches down the aisle. “So, what are the condoms for? Are you going back to your strip club? Hmm? Going to pick up some girls there?”
Aw, fuck. I swear my face is breaking because I sense a smile coming on. Is she jealous? She’s fucking adorable when she’s jealous.
I stifle the smile and keep my face blank. “No. Not going back to the strip club, Flowers. They’re in case you do decide you want to continue having sex with me.”
She stops the cart and looks at me, considering. Her lips are in a pout, but her posture has softened. “I’ll think about it.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
A blush spreads across her cheeks, and she starts pushing the cart again at a determined speed. “What else are you getting?”
“Food.”
“I need kitty litter,” she mutters.
“Let’s get some.” We head to the pet aisle. She picks out the kitty litter. I throw in some Kitten Chow, and catnip treats and one of those poles with feathers attached to the end for the kitten to play with.
“I didn’t think you liked cats.” Hannah eyes me from under a swath of curls.
For some reason, it hurts that she noticed. That I can’t hide my lack of humanity. “I don’t,” I say gruffly.
It’s not true. I don’t like or dislike cats. I don’t give a shit about them. But I know it’s fucked up that I can look a kitten in the face right now and feel nothing. There’s definitely something wrong with me. All mammals are wired to think baby animals are cute. I learned that in middle school science class.
I stalk through the store. I picked up a few things at the grocery store before I moved into the apartment Marco rented for me, but I was in culture shock then. Just being in the grocery store had been an out of body experience—like most everything this past week. Now, I’m determined to find something I like or want. I drag Hannah through every aisle filling the cart with all kinds of food. Steak. Ice cream. Potato chips. Fresh fruit and vegetables. Oreo cookies.
“You’d better be paying for all this because I’m not,” Hannah mutters when the cart gets full.
“Yeah, I got it.”
After a few moments, she says, “I’m sorry—that was bitchy.”
Seriously. This girl. Who does that? Who apologizes for an offhanded dig?
