Roots and Wings (City Limits #1)(30)

Shit, especially until I knew her first f*cking name.

Then I realized they probably knew what it was. It was my chance. I could find out and then pretend to guess it sooner than later tonight.

But I couldn’t do it.

“I have plans,” I said, not going into detail. “I just wanted to make sure you knew and that someone would be here to lock up.” I’d been locking up on most nights, since I was trying to get into the groove of the office procedures.

They shared a conspiratorial look and a unison, “mmm-hmm,” and then went back to their lunches and conversation.

Just like the morning, the afternoon flew by much the same. Before long, it was three thirty and I was driving to the store.

For as small as Willard’s was, surprisingly, they had most everything. The produce was fresh and the meat counter had a great selection. It was just funny that there were only about a dozen parking spots. I smiled to myself as I watched one of the guys who worked there carrying out an elderly lady’s bags, just like a Norman Rockwell postcard.

This was a good place to live.

I grabbed a few vegetables, a nice—for Wynne—bottle of red, though I wasn’t sure if O’Fallon liked wine. I also picked up Newcastle, which I was sure was a good alternative, just in case.

I found two really nice New York Strips, and was walking down a few of the aisles, checking things out since I had the time. I was glad to find they had deodorant and shaving stuff, and just about anything a man would need. They had general medicines and I was shocked to see they actually carried condoms.

Good to know, but who wanted to buy a box of condoms there?

Plus, I doubted I’d need them. At least not that night. I wasn’t in any hurry to get that physical with O’Fallon, but it did remind me when—and if—things did progress that way, I’d need to think about it.

I checked out at one of the two registers they had and grabbed a cold drink out of the cooler nearby.

“So you think you’ll be sticking around then?” asked the lady who was ringing me up.

We’d talked briefly last time I was in and she tried to convince me to move back to Cleveland, that Wynne had nothing to offer a handsome, young doctor like myself. I most certainly was staying, but she was completely wrong. Wynne had a lot to offer.

“Of course I’m staying. I like it here.”

“Doing some grilling tonight? Weather is right for it.” She changed the subject and kept her eyes on what she was doing.

“Yeah, sounded good.”

“You got two steaks in here?”

These people and their fishing for gossip. They knew just how to dig for information without coming right out and saying, “What are you doing and who are you doing it with?”

“They both looked good,” I said, evading her probing question.

“You drink Newcastle? Need a bag of ice?”

That wasn’t a bad idea, so I replied, “Yes, please.” I ignored the Newcastle question.

She put all of my items in bags. Then I saw the same candy bar O’Fallon brought me and grabbed one, adding to my total at the last minute. Judging by the lady’s face, it was a move that was a major pain in her ass.

“Will that be all?” she said sarcastically, but giving me a grin to counteract her tone.

“Think so.”

“Big plans this weekend? You need help out?”

“I think I’m just going to enjoy the weather, maybe listen to the ball game on Sunday. I think I can manage.”

“I’m sure you can, sweetie,” she added as I looped the handles of the bags and headed for the automatic doors.

“Come back now,” she shouted after me.

I noticed that O’Fallon’s truck was missing from the lot at her dad’s garage as I drove past. Had she taken off early, too? That thought excited me.

When I got home, I did a quick run through the house. It was easy to keep clean, mainly because I’d spent most of my time outside, working on the landscaping. I’d even pulled out a few bushes in the back that were overgrown, and, frankly, a pain in the ass to mow around.

I took a shower and gave my face a clean shave. Then, for the first time in my life, I stood in front of my closet—in my boxers—trying to decide what to wear.

What in the hell?

In the city, when I’d take a girl out, I’d wear nice pants and a button up shirt. Here it was all different. We weren’t really going out. I’d look stupid if I dressed like that to cook on the grill and drive around on dirt roads.

Opting out of the more typical date options, I chose to wear jeans, a nice T-shirt, and I grabbed a zip-up hoodie. It was almost May and plenty warm during the day, but the nights could still get kind of cool.

It was only about five by then and I noticed time had slowed considerably, compared to that morning. I kept myself busy by bringing a pair of the Adirondack chairs from the front porch around to the back deck so we could hang out back there—together—while the food was on the grill. I filled the cooler with the ice and beer, chilled the wine in the refrigerator, cut up the vegetables, seasoned every last one, and wrapped them in foil. I put the steaks in the marinade I’d found on the shelf at the market, and then I looked at the clock again.

Only five twenty. Dammit.

I tried to calculate how long it would take me to get to her house, even though I knew it was probably only about two minutes.