Hooking Him (How to Catch an Alpha #3)(8)
“Anna—”
“Babe, let’s go get lunch,” Gaston cuts in, and she bites the inside of her cheek as she looks at me, the door, then back again.
“Don’t make Gaston carry you out of here. I’m good. Just go have lunch and feed that baby.” I look at her belly as she rests her hand on her stomach in a protective gesture. I know from our talks that she’s nervous about becoming a mom, but I have no doubt she’s going to be one of the best moms around.
“Okay,” she agrees reluctantly. “And I’ll bring you back a burger, but later, you and I are going to talk.”
“I can’t wait,” I joke, and Gaston laughs, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and leading her outside. When they’re gone, I close my eyes, wondering how I can feel equally scared and excited about the idea of seeing Calvin again.
Suggestion 3
DON’T GET YOUR HOPES UP
ANNA
I place a carton of strawberries in my cart, then look at the shopping app on my cell phone, checking them off before scanning the rest of the list. Growing up, I never went to the grocery store. I just put what I needed on the housekeeper’s list, and like magic, it would appear the next day. In college, I didn’t cook or shop very often. Then later, when I got my own place, I used a service, so everything was delivered. And I did that after I moved in with Lance, because it was easier with both our busy schedules. I wouldn’t have thought I’d find wandering the aisles and picking things for myself enjoyable, but there is something relaxing, maybe even fulfilling, about the simple task of making a list and going to the grocery store.
“Anna.” I lift my head and frown when I see a woman I don’t know walking toward me, quickly pushing a cart that seems to be overflowing with food. She’s smiling like we know each other. “You’re Anna, aren’t you?”
“Yes . . . have we met before?” I ask, trying to place her. Since I started working at the bakery, when I’m out and about around town I often run into people who’ve come to the shop, but she doesn’t look familiar.
“Oh Lord,” she says with a laugh as she reaches out to grasp my arm. “Please excuse my manners. I’m Elsie, Calvin’s mom.”
Calvin’s mom. Holy cow. My heart drops into my stomach.
“Pearl mentioned you had red hair and that you were very pretty, so when I saw you, I just knew it was you.” She shrugs, giving my arm a squeeze before dropping her hand away. “So what are you doing here?”
“Umm . . .” I automatically glance at her shopping cart and mine, and she laughs, catching me off guard with the exuberant sound.
“You’re shopping. Of course you’re shopping. What else would you be doing at the grocery store?” She waves her hand like she’s wiping away the question.
I giggle, unable to control it, and her eyes brighten with humor. “Sorry,” I say.
“For what? Laughter is the best medicine.” She presses her lips together briefly. “At least that’s what the plaque in my kitchen says.”
“Are you sure you’re Calvin’s mom?” My eyes widen, and I want to snatch the question back, but it’s too late. It’s already out. “Sorry, I mean . . . he’s awesome, great really. It’s just—”
“Don’t apologize,” she says, cutting off my rambling. “I know my son can be a little gruff. He’s like his father in that way, but I promise once you get to know him, you’ll find out he’s also sweet.”
Sweet? I wouldn’t describe Calvin as sweet. I’d describe him as hot, forward, and aggressive. Or maybe he’s just hot, and the rest was just the impression he gave me the last time I saw him, a week ago. Not that I’m counting the days or disappointed he hasn’t kept his promise of seeing me again.
“Trust me: he’s a big softy.”
“I don’t really know your son that well, but I’m sure you’re right,” I say while fighting the urge to laugh. Even not really knowing the man, I can imagine what his reaction would be to his mom describing him as a softy.
“It’s so funny running into you here,” she chirps, and something in her eyes causes me to instantly go on guard. “I was going to call Pearl and ask her for your phone number. She mentioned you don’t have any family in town, and I’m having a barbecue tomorrow. I wanted to invite you over, since there will be lots of people there.”
“I . . . oh . . . well, I . . . that’s very nice,” I stutter out, then add a touch of defeat to my tone. “I would love to come, but tomorrow I have to work.”
Her expression falls but then turns hopeful as she asks, “What time do you get off work?”
“Around five.”
“That’s perfect.” She claps, making my pulse jump. “You can come over after you get off, since we won’t even start the grill until a little before then.”
“I . . .” I start to say I can’t, but with the way she’s looking at me, I can’t force the words out. What the heck is happening right now, and why do I feel like I’m being played? Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I say the only thing I can. “I would love to come.”
“Great.” She digs into her bag, which is sitting in the front of the cart, and continues talking. “I’ll just take your number and text you my address.” She pulls out her phone, then waits for me to rattle off my number. A moment after she types it into her cell, my phone rings. “That’s me. Just ignore it for now and store it when you have a chance.” She grins, then leans toward me. “This must be serendipity: me wanting to invite you over, then running into you today.”