Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4)(94)
A row of Pop-Tarts catches my eye and I stop, picking up a box of blueberry and putting them in with the rest of my things.
“Those are my favorite,” he says.
I wink at him. “I know.”
He looks at me, confused. “How did you know?”
“There was an empty box in your recycling and another in the cupboard. You’ve probably gone through it by now, even just eating one at a time. Still weird, by the way.”
He gives me the strangest expression but doesn’t comment as we finish up Lola’s list and grab a few more things for him. We turn in unison near the cash registers, getting in line to check out.
“You know,” he says, “we’re really good at this.”
I tilt my head to look up at him, waiting for him to elaborate.
“This domestic stuff. Look how good our apples look next to each other. My shampoo next to your tampons? It’s like they were made to be together in this cart. We haven’t argued over what kind of tuna fish to buy and we agree that Ruffles are better than Lay’s. It’s just—it’s nice to know.”
I smile up at him. “?‘To know’? To know what?”
He bends, kissing my cheek. “To know we aren’t just amazing in bed together, or at a bar together, but actually together together.”
“It is.” I turn into his kiss, letting our lips simply press together as we look into each other’s eyes. I can feel his mouth turn into his smile, and watch as his eyes curve into my favorite, playful expression.
“I love you,” he whispers when he pulls back only a couple of inches, and then kisses me one more time. My throat tightens with the need to say it back.
But not here. I can feel the person behind us watching, can feel how we must stand out in the bright, impersonal light of a grocery store. I can’t look away, though: Luke Sutter is a motherf*cking wonder right now, and Lola’s words ring through my thoughts. She’s right: He’s mine now.
The cashier begins scanning things from our cart, and the moment quiets, sweetly. I pay for my groceries and he pays for his, and then together we push the cart out to my car.
“Would you need to go to an office for this new job?” he asks, bending to push a bag toward the back of my trunk. I pull another bag out of the cart and he reaches for it, quietly telling me, “Let me.”
“No,” I answer. “All the programs I need are on my laptop, so I can work from home. Maybe at a coffee shop once or twice a week for a change of scenery.”
“What you’re saying is, you could live anywhere?” he asks, and the question is full of hope.
“I could.” A storm of birds is flapping around in my chest.
With the last bag unloaded, he looks down at me for a moment before leaning in, kissing me softly. It’s the faintest, slowest, most featherlight kiss I’ve ever had, and I want to ask him for about a hundred more.
Can I ovulate from a kiss?
“That’s good to know,” he says, and then points the cart in the direction of his car. “See you at Fred’s tonight, Logan.”
* * *
FRED IS BEHIND the bar when I get to work, and I feel the first real pang of sadness at the possibility of leaving, even to do something I love. I don’t have a particularly close relationship with my own father, so getting to hang out with Fred most nights has become something I really look forward to.
Nana would have loved Fred.
Most only-children bear the burden of being their parents’ entire focus, carrying the weight of their collective hopes and dreams on their shoulders. My parents—particularly my mom—discovered early on that I wasn’t the perfect little Mini-Me she’d always wanted, and opted for disapproval rather than trying to relate to me. I wasn’t outright rebellious, but I wasn’t a people-pleaser, either, and I spent most of my teen years being reprimanded for one thing or another.
My grandmother, on the other hand, just got me, and even though I’m sure there were more times than not where my headstrong personality made her want to sell me to the nearest traveling circus, she knew that the traits that made me a challenging teenager would make me a confident, independent woman.
I do a lot of thinking as I start my shift, about what I should do with my life and where, about how many changes could be on the horizon. I keep going back to my conversation with Luke at the store, and it feels heavier, more important with every passing hour. Luke seems to have settled on moving to Berkeley, but we haven’t really talked about it yet. Something in my chest curls in on itself at the idea of being away from him, even now. San Diego has always been my home—even when I was only here visiting during the summer it felt that way. Could I leave it now?
There’s a big game on tonight and the place is packed. I see a lot of regulars, and even more new faces. It’s a good mix: some younger, some older, and a few in between. I keep track of the drinks of the people sitting at the bar, and carefully monitor a particularly rowdy group of sorority-type girls in a booth near the jukebox.
Luke comes in around ten, slipping up to the bar while I’m covering for one of the waitresses. He’s laughing with Fred when I join them, and he reaches out, snags one of my belt loops, and smiles, so f*cking wide.
My entire body is full of tiny bombs that detonate when he gives me that smile.
“Hey,” he says.