Rock Chick Reborn (Rock Chick #9)(5)
And there I was, near tears in the bakery section of King Soopers.
Because I wanted a badass.
I wanted to be adored, beloved, worshipped by a good man who saw nothing but good in me.
I’d wanted that for as long as I could remember.
And it wasn’t going to happen.
Not for me.
Never for me.
Because life was unfair.
But the worst of it was . . .
I’d made it that way.
CRASH!
I jumped back as my cart slammed into the bagel display, toilet paper packs and Bounty wobbling, full-fat milk glugging, chips rustling, boxes of DiGiornos nearly toppling, cart ending up jammed against the shelves under the bagels, caged there by another cart that was nearly as full as mine.
I turned my head to see Rose Hottie, hands still on the cart that had plowed into my own.
“Now that I have your attention.”
Oo . . .
Wee.
His voice was honey.
Warm, sweet, deep, delicious honey.
Hell’s fire.
“Uh . . .” I forced out.
“I’m Moses,” he declared.
Oh Lord.
Good name.
Great name.
Goddamn.
“Um . . .” I mumbled.
“Moses Richardson.”
I got kinda lost in watching his lips moving.
They moved again.
“Now’s the time you tell me your name,” he ordered.
My eyes lifted to his.
Bad idea.
He had fabulous eyes. Open, amused and curious.
“I’m grocery shopping,” I shared.
His eyes turned more amused.
“Is that your name?” he asked.
“No.”
“I hadn’t really missed that,” he told me, tipping his head to my cart.
I decided not to say anything more.
He didn’t take the hint and unjack my cart from the bakery display.
He gave my cart a thorough examination before looking again at me and inquiring, “Those your boys?”
“Uh . . . what?”
“At the entrance. Those boys you were with. Ten frozen pizzas in your cart. They yours?”
“Yep.”
Expressive eyebrows went up.
“Both of them?” he pushed.
“Yep,” I pushed out.
“You got a brother?” he asked.
“As in the sibling kind?” I asked back.
“No,” he answered.
“No,” I answered.
“Hard to make that white one with a brother,” he decreed.
“Uh . . . yeah,” I agreed.
“Adopted?” he kept at me.
“Foster,” I shared.
That’s when it happened.
We were in the bakery section and it felt like the ovens had all been dialed up, doors open, warming the place with bakery-oven goodness.
“You’re a foster momma?” he queried softly.
“Just . . . just them.”
“How long they been with you?”
“Three years.”
“So they’re yours,” he pressed.
My chin lifted half an inch. “They’re mine.”
More warmth, not from the ovens, coming direct from him.
Moses Richardson.
Damn.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
It was time to pull my shit together.
I tried to unwedge my cart, muttering, “I gotta go.”
He shoved my cart in farther, damaging the bagged, cardboard trays of Hawaiian rolls on the shelves under the bagels.
I looked back to him.
“They’ll like me,” he announced.
I stared.
Was this brother seriously jumping that far ahead?
“Because I like you,” he explained.
“You don’t know me,” I pointed out.
“Yeah I do.”
That felt nice.
I still shook my head.
For his sake.
And mine.
“You don’t and you won’t.”
“I do and I will.”
It was time to snap back to Shirleen.
“Listen, my man, you need to move your cart. I got shit to do. My boys’ll be back soon and Roam’s got a girl comin’ over tonight, and we gotta get him set up before Sniff and I hit Jerusalem.”
He looked impressed. “Combo platter?”
You were either vegetarian or not from Denver if you didn’t get the combo (or meat) platter at Jerusalem.
“Absolutely.”
More warmth and then, “Roam?”
“The black one.”
“I mean the name,” he clarified.
“Street name. Same with Sniff.”
Another brow lift. “You let them go by their street names?”
“There were battles to wage when they hit my crib, that wasn’t one of them.”
“I can imagine,” he murmured.
I took him in. Dark-wash jeans. Pressed button-down. Discreet, but attractive, curb-chained gold bracelet peeking from his cuff. Good boots.
He had no fucking clue.
“No, you can’t,” I snapped.
His eyes stared right into mine.
“Work at Gilliam. Corrections officer. I can.”