The Plan (Off-Limits Romance, #4)(7)

With one last glance over my shoulder, I stroll to the pork chops, reach for a pack that says “extra thick,” and freeze as a large arm snakes in front of me, the hand closing around it.

I let out a little “ooh,” turning my head so I can—what the—

“Are you serious with this?”

Gabe blinks down at me, my pork chops cradled near his chest, enclosed in his big hand. He, in fact, looks owl-eyed serious. Or maybe eagle-eyed. He looks staunch and slightly fierce, like a bird of prey who just stole a smaller bird’s rabbit. On second thought, make that smug. What he looks is smug, the motherfucker.

I hold my hand out. “Give that back!”

“Well, hello to you, too, Marley.”

I glare, and he shakes his head, a little for shame shake that makes me want to claw his eyeballs out.

“I think what you meant to say is ‘give that to me,’” he says smoothly. “No ‘back’ about it.”

“Yes, I do mean back.” My voice shakes with the effort I’m making to keep it steady. “I was reaching for it first.”

He holds it up, his face and his demeanor calm. “I think that’s obviously untrue. Regardless, all you have to do is grab another one,” he says, all reasonable-like, nodding at the freezer shelves behind me.

I turn back around to them, but there are no more extra thick pork chops.

“I don’t need those thin ones, or pork tenderloin, or any of that other stuff,” I explain in forced-patient tones. “I need extra thick pork chops.” I fold my arms and angle my body toward Gabe. “That’s what my mom prefers,” I say, shooting my own for shame look at him.

I glance at his buggy. It’s nearly empty. I note a head of living lettuce, a rotisserie chicken, and a loaf of gluten-free bread before I swing my gaze back up to his.

He shakes his head, his infuriating smirk getting even smirkier. “Tell Dephina to try the teriyaki tenderloin. It’s better than pork chops.”

“Delphina” my ass. He never called her that!

“If that’s the case,” I tell him, “why don’t you just get the tenderloin? Dephina asked for pork chops. She has a recipe for pork chops. She’s not in good health, Gabe. She wants a damn pork chop. Give me that pork chop.”

He lifts his head a little, like a giraffe going for a leaf, and pointedly examines my buggy. “What will I get?”

“Are you kidding me?”

He makes an “o” of his lips, giving a slight shake of his head—impersonating someone reasonable. “I was going to eat this tonight.”

“You don’t even like pork chops!”

His blue eyes meet mine. He blinks. “I do now.”

“This is totally ridiculous.”

“Maybe you should try the Piggly Wiggly,” he says lightly. “I’m sure they have more.”

I used to work there in high school, before I worked at Robards’ Drugs. Gabe knows how much I hate that place.

And anyway— “I can’t. I only have a bike in town! My car is still in transit from Chicago. I can’t ride that far. So maybe you should.” My face is blazing red now. I can feel it.

“Would Brenda really mind if you cook something else for her?”

Now purple. I inhale deeply, struggling to find my equilibrium. “I’m not cooking,” I grit. “She is.”

He shrugs. “You’re a good enough cook, if I recall. I’ve gotten better, too. I’ve got a pretty good tenderloin recipe I could send you.”

What. On. Earth. Is. Wrong. With. Him.

In the last twelve years, Mr. Big Bestseller must have lost his fucking mind.

“I don’t want your recipe!” My tone is shrill. I swallow, and then aim for calm and tolerant. And fair. “I saw that first, and I was grabbing it when you snatched it away. If you like the idea of going somewhere else, you should take your car and go. And let me have that. For my mother.”

He rubs his stubbled jaw, looking contemplative. “Nahhh. But if you want some, just come knockin’. I’ll save one for you.”

He walks off, and my head spins.

What the HELL was that?



*

Gabe





Am I an asshole?

In the past, I would have said “no” with some degree of confidence. But as I drop my bag of groceries into my bike pack under the store’s front awning, I have to consider that the answer might have changed during the past few months.

They say misery loves company. I think I get it now. That back there with Marley—taunting her, I admit—that shit was the best part of my day. My week. My month. That shit was the rainbow in a fucking black and white film.

The outrage on her face… Goddamn. I fucking loved her angry, bright red face. When I turned to walk away, she looked mad enough to spit bullets. All over a fucking pack of pork chops. As I zip my bag, I press my lips together—to suppress a wicked chuckle.

Asshole.

I’m not sure I even mind it. Why not be an asshole? Nice guys come in last—another adage I’m starting to believe. I’ve played it nice my whole damn life, or fucking tried. Why not seek out entertainment now?

Marley moving in above me? Maybe she’s the sugar in this shit sandwich. She left me, so what the fuck do I owe her?