Soaring (Magdalene #2)(47)

But right then, I had fabulous skinny jeans, fantastic hair and shoes any woman would kill for, but they were on my feet and I did not care what it said about me that I didn’t look at this as armor. I didn’t look at it as a shield. I didn’t look at it as crutch.

I let it feed me.

“If you don’t mind,” I said calmly and quietly. “I’d rather not do this.” I held her gaze and finished, “Ever.”

“Like I’m gonna believe that,” she sniped at me. “Like you haven’t given us a break from your venom to lull us into thinking you’ve changed and then you strike.”

“As I said,” I replied firmly, “have a nice day, Martine.”

I turned my eyes to my daughter, who was watching this closely, looking confused, something that twisted my heart. But regardless that it ripped a new hole in me, all I could do was give her a soft smile, which I did.

Then I turned away and kept walking.

“You know, Con is done with you,” Martine called my back. “You slip up once more, Amelia, and he’ll end it.”

I said nothing. I didn’t look back. I may have started shaking but I didn’t think she could see it.

I just kept walking.

I also decided to meander a bit more so if they saw me again, they wouldn’t think I was escaping.

And once I did that, I checked out and got the heck out of there.

I didn’t have all the ingredients to my hash brown casserole but I could buy them tomorrow.

However, I would find that it was unfortunate that I’d been able to hit the wine aisle, for when I walked down the sidewalk with the handles of my brown bags in my hands and a man came charging out of the door of a shop down the walk and slammed into me, I went flying. I dropped both bags, the twenty dollar bottle of wine I’d bought to take to Jake and Josie’s crashing and breaking, red wine soaking through the bag and spreading along the sidewalk.

“Watch where you’re—” a harsh voice started and my back shot straight as I righted myself and turned to him, raring to go.

I was this because, first, I’d just had a run-in with Martine, never pleasant, this one the same.

Second, she’d been with my daughter, my daughter, grocery shopping, when my daughter would barely look at me—and didn’t—and would never entertain the idea of grocery shopping with me.

She also barely spoke to me.

And last, he had come charging out of a shop without looking where he was going. I was already on the sidewalk. I had right of way (according to me). And he was not going to blame me for breaking my bottle of wine.

“Watch where I’m going?” I asked a man who was tall, dark and attractive, but he reminded me of my father.

He was also gazing contemplatively at me as he lifted a hand and swept it toward the sidewalk. “My apologies. I broke your wine.”

“You absolutely did,” I confirmed, stepping away from the spreading wine stain, not wanting it on my criminally awesome shoes, at the same time going into a squat to rescue the other bag.

“Allow me,” he said, crouching beside me.

“Thank you, but I’ve got it,” I returned coolly.

“No, really,” he murmured and curled his fingers around my wrist, staying my movements, and at this unwelcome familiarity so soon in our acquaintance, forcing my eyes to his. “Allow me.”

He wanted to do it?

He could do it.

I pulled away and straightened.

He grabbed the handles of my good bag and transferred the items of the ruined one into it, setting it aside rather than lifting it and possibly breaking it due to its new weight.

“I’ll go to Wayfarer’s, get another bag, replace your wine,” he offered. “Are you fine to wait with your other things while I do that?”

Even though Wayfarer’s was the last place on earth I wanted to be, something about him made me decline his offer.

“Again, thank you but I’ll do it.”

“Please,” he pushed. “You were on your way before I crashed into you and I’d hate to think of the other bag breaking while you sort out something it was me that made you need to sort out.”

He was right about that.

“I’m in kind of a hurry,” I somewhat lied.

He more than somewhat smiled. “Then I’ll be certain to hurry.”

I sighed and decided discussing it with him would make this situation last even longer, not to mention mean I’d remain in his presence for longer, so I gave in by nodding.

He kept smiling and nodded back.

Then he sauntered off, appearing not in a rush at all and not bothering to ask me what the wine was he should be replacing.

I stood on the sidewalk, hoping to all that was holy that Olympia and Martine wouldn’t walk out and catch me standing on the sidewalk looking like an exceptionally well-dressed, exemplarily-shod, fabulously coifed and made up daytime prostitute.

This didn’t happen and within minutes, a checkout boy from Wayfarer’s dashed out with a bag. He also repacked my things. Another one came out as the first one was doing this. He had a dustbin and broom and cleaned up the broken bottle and wasted bag.

They were both gone by the time the man came back with another Wayfarer’s bag, this one doubled against the obviously heavy contents inside that could not be a single bottle of wine.