A Kiss Like This (Kiss and Make Up #3)(12)

Yeah.

Balancing the pile of such random merchandise I’ve accumulated because I didn’t grab a cart on my way in, my frugality kicks in and, like the spendthrift I am, I begin putting things back on the shelves.

Since I’m technically only here for tampons, I put back the microwave popcorn, fuzzy socks, silver nail polish I will never actually wear, and a Blu-ray of The Longest Ride.

Actually, no. I do want The Longest Ride.

I add it back to my pile.

Meandering dutifully back to the feminine products like I had intended to do in the first place, I grab a hot-pink box of regular absorbency, scanning the tampon aisle one more time just in case I missed anything exciting and new.

I round the corner and start down the main drag, retracing my steps past the cosmetics, perfume, and the pharmacy, idly checking over every endcap and eyeing any packaging with metallic sheen that catches my attention—after all, that’s what the displays were designed to do, right? Entice me.

Well played, marketing people, well played.

Like a sucker, I stand there scrutinizing everything like it’s my job, not because I need any more crap, but because I’m bored and in no hurry to return home to an empty house.

Standing in checkout lane numero tres, I study a display of candy, eyeballing a bag of assorted Tootsie Rolls and deciding that if I were to buy the whole bag (hypothetically, of course), I would eat all the blue-wrapped vanilla ones first. I’d definitely toss out the lemon ones—I mean, who eats the lemon ones? Who?

Lemon Tootsie Rolls? Come on now.

Get real.

Sighing, I mentally purchase half the chocolate candy bars on the metal shelves, a snack-size bag of Funyuns, and a roll of Mentos. It’s a rough life, but I’m muddling through.

Tapping the box of tampons clutched in my left hand listlessly against my thigh, I count the number of items the woman in front of me has stacked up on the counter. Let me tell you, it’s a lot of shit, which is annoying, since this is the Speedy Express ten-items-or-less lane.

By my estimation, the cheater has at least twenty-five items.

The cover of US Weekly catches my eye, and since I have nothing to do but stand here and wait, I grab the current issue and begin thumbing through, page after page, ignorant to the looming figure that has walked up to stand behind me.

Intently, I study page thirty-four. Sheesh, when did Brad Pitt get so dang old? My mom loves him. And seriously, have you ever seen the column, “Stars: They’re Just like Us”? Um, yeah, what America needs are photos of Luke Bryan pushing an entire shopping cart of French baguettes and beer in the Whole Foods parking lot. And the photo of Theo James filling his car tank with gasoline? I mean, please, do they really expect us to believe Beyoncé buys her own toothpaste?

Apparently.

I shake my head in disgust but continue flipping through it anyway. Then, over the top right-hand corner of the magazine, a pair of light-brown Timberland work boots shuffle, appearing in my line of vision and catching my attention.

Not wanting to be rude, I inch closer toward the conveyer belt so I’m not hogging up all the valuable aisle space, turning to shove the magazine back into the metal magazine rack on the endcap.

Finally! The woman in front of me begins digging through her purse for her payment and hands a credit card to the cashier.

Halle-freaking-lujah.

With a jaunty flick of my wrist, I toss my unpaid box of tampons onto the conveyer belt, adding a last-minute pack of Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum that I’m suddenly in the mood to chew.

“That seems like an impulse buy. Are you sure you need that?” a deep baritone asks from behind me, and I flinch, startled.

I recognize the voice without even having to turn around, and wince, my body tensing up.

Cringing and wishing the ground would swallow me whole, I pivot slowly on the heels of my brown calfskin ankle boots, and paste a tight-lipped smile on my face that I’m sure looks as fake as it feels.

“Tampons are not an impulse buy,” I smart with authority, as heat singes my face. “They’re a necessity.”

“I meant the bubble gum,” Caleb deadpans in a deep voice.

Shoot. Me. Now.

As I face him, doing my best not to recoil like a wuss, a hundred impressions assault me: his height, his brooding expression, his rugged appearance.

His nearness.

Forging on, since we’re obviously hostage to this dead-end conversation, I ignore the apprehensive rolling inside my stomach. “So, how’s it going, Showtime?” I use air quotes when I say his nickname, then immediately regret it.

His face remains expressionless.

“Why, it’s going splendid, Walk of Shame. Thanks for asking.” I have a feeling he’d use air quotes too, but his hands are full.

Since mine aren’t, I narrow my eyes and boldly plant both hands on my hips. Then I remove them but let them hang clenched at my sides. “Please don’t call me that.”

Caleb just shrugs his broad shoulders and studies me from under the brim of his ball cap, his dark eyes scanning my figure before they dart to the conveyer belt, where my bright, hot-pink box of tampons rolls gradually—excruciatingly slowly—toward the scanner.

In a time lapse.

At a snail’s pace.

In slow motion.

The slowest conveyer belt in the history of Express Lane checkouts. Slap some glitter, lipstick, and a spotlight on that box, and we’d have our own Broadway play called, Hello, cruel world! Abby has her period!