Shimmy Bang Sparkle(60)
I didn’t have the words for any of that, so I kissed her instead. Kissed her to tell her what I didn’t have the balls to say out loud—that I wanted to be buying her a ring for real. The woman behind the desk cleared her throat, and Stella and I pulled apart.
“We’ll take these two,” I said.
“Coming right up, lovebirds.”
When we were alone again, I tucked Stella’s hair behind her ear, leaned in, and told her, “You down for a little more shopping? We’ve got a road trip to take.”
She beamed up at me. In her eyes was light and heat. But most of all, a whole lot of trouble. I fucking loved it—sweet on the surface, molten hot underneath. She placed her palm on my chest and made a fist with her hand to pull my T-shirt tight. She got up on her tiptoes and whispered into my ear, “It’s go time.”
29
STELLA
Even though it wasn’t very warm out that day, Nick carefully maneuvered the Love Boat into the single shady space in the vast superstore parking lot so that Priscilla would stay cool. We locked up every window, and he double-checked all the doors twice. Hand in hand, we walked across the newly paved parking lot, still somehow rubbery and slightly sticky underfoot. I grabbed a loose shopping cart that was blocking a parking space right next to the cart corral—Why did people do that? Why?—and together we pushed it inside.
“HowcanIhelpyou,” said the greeter in one solid string of syllables, no spaces in between the words, without looking up from his phone.
“We’re good, man, thanks,” said Nick as he took over cart-pushing duty, his thick and muscular inked forearms making a swoon-worthy contrast to the reminder to Always buckle up your child in the cart seat!
First, we rumbled toward the produce section, which was nearest the entrance. While I put a few apples in a bag, he leaned on the cart and contemplated the banana display. He really was so cute. It was like watching a lion learn to make biscuits or something. I suspected he’d probably never pushed a cart around in his life. He was probably a six-pack-and-six-eggs shopper. I spun the plastic bag with the apples to twist the top closed and put it in the cart. “Something tells me I might be domesticating you.”
Glancing at me, he put a small bunch of nearly ripe bananas in the front part of the cart and wrapped his arm around my waist. “Pretty sure it’s exactly what I needed.”
I moaned a little. A montage began to run through my head, the sort of thing that would be plunked square in the middle of some cute rom-com: me teaching him to make sugar cookies, him sprinkling the frosting with rainbow nonpareils. Me teaching him to make caramel for apple dipping; us retiling a bathroom. Him teaching me to ride the motorcycle on some rural road. Us playing Scrabble on Friday nights over beers and chips and salsa. I had never imagined myself doing any of those things with any man, and oh my goodness it sounded so very wonderful indeed.
From there, we went over to meats. He picked out two New York strips, so I looped back to produce and picked out two baking potatoes. He got a six-pack of beer, and I got a bottle of red wine, a can of peaches, and a small container of orange juice. “For sangria,” I said as I grabbed a lemon from its little basket by the fish counter.
“I like your style,” he said, and gave my hip a little squeeze. “And for the record, I’m definitely going to be requesting this outfit again. Especially the boots.”
“Speaking of which,” I said as we rumbled down the aisle past some cases of bottled water, “we need to figure out a plan for you, mister.” I reached up and tugged on his hat. “This is a start, but only a start.”
As if right on cue, a little boy holding a half-eaten doughnut stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Nick with his mouth open. He blinked once and then pointed at him very slowly.
We kept on rolling, but I eyed Nick to say, See? The fact was, we were hardly going to be able to disguise him in a cardigan and a pair of dad jeans. The man was a beast, and there was no hiding it.
I looked him up and down and thought it over. In my book, disguises were like electrical work: when done well, nobody noticed. When done badly, disaster.
I took charge of cart-pushing duty. We couldn’t be discussing the details of his disguise right there in the middle of meats and poultry—we needed a quiet spot. And I knew just the place. I steered toward the first aid products and pain medications, and made for the quietest part of the store, where Roxie, Ruth, and I had often sheltered for a quick huddle: feminine hygiene.
However, what I had forgotten was that it was right next to the tamely named Personal Products section. My eyes landed on an exotic-looking box, a luscious deep red with gold writing, featuring the words warming and enhanced sensation. My lady-loins gave me a little shiver. Focusing here would be impossible. “On second thought, camping supplies is probably pretty quiet.”
Nick didn’t budge or even look at me. He was too busy considering two different types of lube. “Got a preference?”
“Or frozen vegetables?”
He dropped the purple bottle into the cart and shook his head. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I dragged my eyes off a small flower-shaped vibrator. Focus, Stella. Focus. I worked my hands into fists and looked up at Nick.
Here were the facts: He was a tatted-up biker with a felony record and a swagger. He was hunky. He was manly. He was looking at me like he wanted to rip off all my clothes and get us booked for public indecency. And we hadn’t even gotten on the highway.