Summer in Napa

chapter 2

Done was such an understatement, Lexi thought as she took off down the alley toward Main Street.

“Screw the dress.” And screw her homecoming.

Lexis tugged her T-shirt farther down her thighs, turned right on Main Street, and stormed toward her grandmother’s shop. It was the one place in her world where Lexi had always felt safe. And all she wanted to do was crawl into her grandmère’s arms and settle in for a good cry—and maybe some homemade fudge.

“Hold up, will ya?” Marc yelled after her.

Lexi kept right on going, even though Marc had no trouble keeping up. With his long legs, she had to take two steps for his every one to ensure she made it inside before he got to her.

“I see you still walk fast when you’re mad.”

“I’m not mad,” she said truthfully.

She was livid, and she didn’t understand why. Lexi knew why Marc had gone to New York recently, and apparently so did Natasha. It wasn’t as though she’d expected Marc not to go to Jeffery and Sara’s wedding. Since Marc was Jeffery’s oldest friend, she assumed he’d be the best man—just like he had been for their wedding.

The problem was that the divorce had only been finalized Friday, the same day as Jeff’s rehearsal dinner. The rat bastard couldn’t even wait a day to move on with his life, to erase almost fifteen years of memories from his mind. And the knowing glance Natasha shot her meant everybody in town already knew. It also meant that, although Jeffery had promised no one back home knew about the affair, there was the distinct possibility that he’d lied.

Big shocker there.

Lexi reached for the door handle and heard the familiar jingle of the bells on the other side, welcoming her home, when Marc’s hand covered hers. “Really? Then why do you look like you want to hit me?”

It wasn’t his hold that had her halting in her tracks, or even his smart mouth, it was the softness in his voice and the way his thumb traced gently over her bare finger.

“Look, Jeff called and asked me to be in the wedding. He’s been my best friend since preschool.” The word friend made her heart ache. At one time she’d considered Marc her friend, even through all of the teasing and pranks—but friends didn’t just disappear. “I couldn’t say no.”

“I never expected you to.” But she had expected him to check in on her, even if it was just a phone call to make sure she was okay—which she hadn’t been. She had been scared and hurt and heartbroken. And since all of her friends in New York were somehow connected to the restaurant—and Jeffery—she had also been completely alone.

To an extent, she understood. Divorces were messy, awkward for everyone involved. But Lexi hadn’t been the one to cheat, and yet she had lost everything. Looking back on the past six months, she realized that Marc’s silence had hurt the worst. “Thanks for the help, but I can take it from here.”

“Look, it’s obvious you had a rough night.”

Lexi looked down at her clothes. Did she really look that bad? Marc’s grimace said she did.

“How about you come back to the hotel with me—” Before she could even roll her eyes at his cheesy line, he put his hands up in a show of innocence. “Just for a nap and to get something other than chocolate and sugar in your system.”

Lexi looked down Main toward the Napa Grand and couldn’t help but smile. The once-dilapidated hotel stood elegant and proud. The windows, no longer boarded over, were framed with beautifully handcrafted edging, and ornate marble casings hugged the corners of the building. Even the original stained-glass panes over the circular entry had been painstakingly recreated. It was incredible.

The first time she’d gone inside the hotel, Marc had convinced her that it was haunted. They had snuck in the through the broken window in the back by the loading dock. Even at fourteen, Lexi had been pretty certain that he just wanted to charm his way into her panties, but confident that her panties weren’t easily charmed, she’d agreed. To her surprise, instead of making his move, Marc had taken her by the hand and led her around the place, explaining the history of the hotel and how it had, at one time, been an important asset to the Napa Valley. Then, after swearing her to secrecy, he’d explained how one day he was going to buy the building and restore it to its original state.

In a rare show of uncertainty, he had gone on to explain that it was a dumb idea, since DeLucas made wine, not hotels. Too late, Lexi had been captivated by his vision; where his family saw cobwebs and rotted boards, Lexi saw what Marc did: something magical, tying this generation to a time that was simpler, full of elegance and class.

She looked at the intricate glass dome over what she remembered to be the ballroom and smiled. He’d accomplished that—and more.

Suddenly everything seemed so overwhelming. She really wanted a nap. A stealthy lowering of the head and quick whiff confirmed that she was in desperate need of a shower. More than anything, she needed to pull it together so she could be on her best game if she expected to face her grandma and not crumble.

“I’m really sorry,” Marc whispered, his fingers threading with hers in a sign of support. Was he sorry for not calling? Or because Jeffery had left her for a bowl of chicken noodle soup? That’s what Sara was—comfortable, nurturing, and homey—with a dash of kink.

Whatever the reason, the small offer brought tears to her tired eyes. Yeah, regrouping before the onslaught of questions sounded nice. Until she realized that Marc was staring down at her with a big dose of pity. Just like Jeffery had when he’d told her he didn’t even want to try to make it work, that he was already in love with Sara.

“I’m fine, actually,” she said, pulling her hand away. Because she was not some woman who crumbled every time a man broke her heart. She was not her mother.

Lexi ignored Marc’s raised brow, and the fact that she was standing on Main Street in her grandmother’s shirt and people were starting to recognize her and wave. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m good.”

“Lexi, wait.” Marc’s hand shot out, grabbing her elbow. “I can’t let you go in there.”

That was all she wanted right now. To hug her grandma, make her way upstairs to her room, and get away from the probing eyes. She wanted to be alone. With an éclair.

“I wasn’t aware that you were my newly appointed social advisor. See ya later, Marc.”

She opened the pastry-shop door and took in a deep, calming breath. Cinnamon, vanilla, and the smell of home only made holding back tears all the more difficult. Especially when she took one step inside, looked past the life-sized cardboard cutout of Baywatch-era David Hasselhoff in red trunks, chest hair, and a plastic lei, past the glass display case filled with petits fours and truffles, past her utter humiliation to lock eyes with Pricilla, who, dressed in a grass skirt and crocheted coconuts, looked as startled to see Lexi as Lexi was when a good portion of the town leaped out from behind the counter and yelled, “Surprise!”

Everyone froze with smiles in place. Arms out wide.

A party popper exploded.

Her grandmother shifted on her orthopedics.

And without a word, Lexi took one step back, then another, turning on her third step to run—straight into a solid mass of warm, manly muscles.

“Easy there.” Marc’s arms came around her to help steady her, she was sure. It actually threw her off more than the surprise party. Or the fact that the portion of the town that was here was the male half. “You run now and everyone will talk.”

“But I’m a mess,” she whispered into his chest. “And why are there so many men here?”

“Our grandmothers have been conspiring again,” he whispered back, and she could hear the smile in his voice.

Pricilla and ChiChi Ryo had been trying to marry off their grandkids for years. All in the name of procreation. And now that ChiChi had her a new granddaughter, with another one on the way, Pricilla desperately wanted someone to dote on. Lexi had thought her grandma would give her at least a few months to ease into being back home and single. Apparently not.

“You could have at least warned me.” He thankfully didn’t mention that he had, in his high-handed way, tried to warn her.

“And miss all the fun?”

“Yeah.” She looked down at the disaster she had become. “Fun.”

Then Marc did the most un-Marc-like thing ever. Instead of telling her how stubborn she was or pointing out the fact that she matched the Baywatch decor, he tucked a finger under her chin, lifted her gaze to his, and said softly enough that only she could hear, “You are Alexis Moreau. Student-body president, prom queen, valedictorian, and the most distinguished pastry chef that St. Helena High’s culinary-immersion program ever graduated.”

She didn’t know about the last part; her grandmother pretty much took that title. But the conviction behind his words, his belief in her, almost made it feel real. Back straight, chest high, sending crumbs scattering to the ground, she fluffed her mop of hair and, ignoring Marc as he swiped a glob of éclair filling off her top, cocked her head slightly to the side—and went for enchanting.

“Now, turn around,” he whispered, taking her by the shoulders and spinning her to face the awaiting guests. “Flash that sexy girl-next-door smile.”

He thought her smile was sexy?

“And show them that you are here to kick ass and take names.” Then, with a resounding smack on the rump, he said, really loudly, “Bring on the bachelors.”





Two hours, eleven minutes, and three éclairs later, Lexi lay on her grandmother’s floral couch, a plastic lei pressing into her cheek as she smothered her face with the throw pillows. She had a headache, a stomachache, and a date lined up for every night of the following three weeks, five for this coming weekend. It wasn’t enough that Jeff was enjoying their time-share in the Keys with his new wife, or that when they came home Sara would be cooking in Lexi’s kitchen, serving her customers her special menu. Now Lexi was back in St. Helena, a divorcée with a grandmother who thought she was too pathetic to get her own dates.

“I don’t think chocolate’s going to fix this one,” Pricilla said, sounding bewildered by her own statement.

Lexi pulled the pillow off her face and glanced up to see her grandmother in the doorway, all soft curves and frosted tips. Wearing a concert tee and a black pleather skort, she looked more like a geriatric roadie than one of the most distinguished pâtissiers in the country.

She came bustling over, two teacups dangling from one hand and a bottle of Angelica in the other. It was barely past the lunch hour, too early to start drinking. Especially since Pricilla put her own Parisian twist on her Angelica, meaning she fortified it with cognac so it was strong enough to cure copper pots.

“I was hoping that the party would have lasted a little longer,” she said, setting the teacups next to a plate of miniquiches on the coffee table. She filled each cup to the rim before swatting Lexi’s legs off the couch and taking up residence in the now-vacant spot. “You shooed everyone away before Chad Stevens showed up.”

“Chad Stevens?” The guy who used to sit across from her in homeroom? He was popular, good looking, played football, and smelled like Ovaltine. He also had boundary issues, meaning he took issue when other people expressed that they had boundaries.

“He’s been asking about your arrival for weeks. Did I mention that he works at Stevens, Stevens, and Stevens?”

“He’s a lawyer?” The idea that a guy like Chad, even though he came from a family of suits, was a legitimate part of the judicial process made her pick up her cup by the dainty handle and chug.

If it was afternoon in St. Helena, it was happy hour in New York.

“And quite the looker, if you ask me. Tall, dark, wears custom suits. I always liked a man who took the time to have his clothes tailored. Your grandpa, God rest his soul, always wore his clothes pressed and tailored.”

“I thought Grandpa owned a tire shop.”

“Didn’t mean that he lacked the respect to dress like a gentleman,” Pricilla chided.

“Grandma, it’s sweet that you went to all the trouble to throw me a party and”—she choked on the next words—“arranged for me to meet some nice men, but—”

Pricilla grabbed a quiche and, before Lexi could seal her lips closed, shoved it in, silencing any further disagreement. “There’s more on that Match site. After ChiChi and Lucinda helped me post your profile, we had nearly a hundred winks—and all local.”

Oh God, there were more men? She needed another refill. And a quiche.

“You don’t even own a computer.”

“I do now. Gabe’s new wife, Regan, has us ladies all teched up and web savvy. I even have a smartphone for when I’m out and want to use the Twitter. My handle is HotBuns, one word with the circled little a before it, if you want to follow me. I’m up to seven thousand followers.”

“Grandma, I’m just not ready to jump back into dating yet,” Lexi said, and lame excuse or not, it was true.

After Lexi interrupted the great basting debacle of her marriage, her confidence took a serious hit. Up until that moment, she’d assumed Jeffery’s lack of interest in sex was due to the long hours he was working, not that her sex appeal lacked interest.

She used to consider herself a romantic. Not anymore. She’d been there, done that, already returned the T-shirt.

“And going out with a bunch of guys that my grandma set me up with will make me look even more pathetic,” she added.

“Oh, honey. I didn’t place that ad because I didn’t think you could find your own gentleman friend. I did it because I knew you would bury yourself in work and spend every night alone in this apartment wondering what went wrong in New York.” Pricilla set her cup down and wrapped a meaty arm around Lexi’s shoulders, tugging her close. “But I’d like to hear why you think you’re pathetic.”

Lexi wrapped her arms around Pricilla’s waist and snuggled in deeper. She smelled like flour and alcohol and home. One sniff and Lexi felt the tears threaten. “I thought we had a good relationship, me and Jeffery, but he never even told me that he was interested in culinary foreplay.”

“Of course not, dear,” Pricilla cooed, smoothing a hand down Lexi’s hair. “You are a good Catholic girl, and he respected you too much for that.”

“We haven’t gone to church since I was seven.” Lexi sniffed. “Plus, Jeffery respected Sara enough to marry her.”

“In a hotel. With her best friend as acting as officiant. She’s probably a Protestant.”

“She’s going to run my kitchen.”

“Which means that you got to come home and finally help me turn Pricilla’s Patisserie into what we always dreamed it could be.”

Lexi had fallen in love with food at a young age, the tastes, textures, and different combinations fascinating her. By the time she was in middle school, she knew a career in the culinary arts was her future. And opening the Sweet and Savory Bistro, with her grandmother, had always been at the center of that dream.

“You and I both know that this town needs a place where locals can share a meal without all the fuss and fanfare of the Napa Valley. Simple food for simple people,” Pricilla went on.

It was also a simple solution to Lexi’s financial problems. She owed her grandmother a great deal of money, and this was the perfect way to pay her back—for everything Pricilla had done for her over the years.

“I know, and I’m excited that we finally get to do this.”

Jeffery had promised that after college they would move back to St. Helena, but then he found the perfect vacancy in Manhattan for their dream restaurant and put in an offer without consulting her. Wanting to make her marriage work, she had believed him when he promised they would only need three years to get Pairing up and running and then they could open their West Coast location and move home.

Then again, he’d also promised to honor and to cherish.

Three years had turned into six, and Jeffery showed no interest in moving home. He also showed no interest in her opinions on how the restaurant should be run, how going organic and local would help boost sales, or how not making time for them could ruin their marriage. The only thing he had listened to her on was their unique menu and the unexpected pairings of flavors, something the restaurant had become famous for and something that Lexi was extremely proud of. And that menu was the only good thing she had salvaged from their marriage.

“But parading around with a different guy every night isn’t my style. Plus, what kind of man agrees to go out with someone’s granddaughter?”

“I met your grandfather that way,” Pricilla scoffed.

“You met Grandpa at the track. Betting on a race.”

“Yes, well, my grandfather taught me how to place bets. I was very good. And Perkins”—Lexi felt Pricilla sigh—“he was so handsome. Walked right up into the stands between races and asked me if he could have the privilege of escorting me to dinner after the last race. We stayed up until nearly midnight talking and holding hands and sharing dreams about the future. We married three weeks later.”

The dreamy look that her grandmother got whenever she talked about Perkins made Lexi’s heart ache. What would it be like to have a love affair like that? Sure, Lexi had loved Jeffery, but never with the fierceness that her grandmother displayed.

“I didn’t know Grandpa raced?”

“Oh, he didn’t race. He was in charge of the tires. But after we married he opened up the tire shop, and two years later he’d made enough money to build me the patisserie. When your mother came along, he added this apartment so I could keep early baker’s hours and still be with the family. We never liked to be apart for long.”

Lexi hadn’t been able to get Jeffery to agree to be in the same room with her for more than an hour unless it was at the restaurant. “I just need time, Grandma. I haven’t even been divorced a week. The last thing I want to do is end up like Mom.”

Lexi’s parents had divorced when she was seven. Since then Evelyn Moreau had been in love a total of fifteen times, engaged eleven, married to six different men, and lived through seven divorces. Husband number three was stupid enough to also be divorcé number six. And last Valentine’s Day, Evelyn Moreau had been stupid enough to say yes to her twelfth proposal and follow a retired podiatrist to Palm Beach.

“If I hadn’t spent thirty-nine hours in labor with her, and if her daddy hadn’t died when she was just a child, I would have shot her by now.” Pricilla sighed. “Honey, you could never be like your mother even if you tried. You’re hardworking and driven and just about the sweetest, most loyal person I know. Which is why you would never ask me to go back to those nice young men and cancel their dates. They are looking forward to seeing you, and it would be rude.”

Grandma was right; Lexi was never rude. She prided herself on that…although when it came to Marc, she couldn’t seem to remember her manners.

“Fine, I will go on the dates”—she held up a hand as Pricilla practically quivered with delight—“but only the ones that I have already agreed to, no more. And no more Match.com, got it?”

“You always were stubborn.” Pricilla leaned over and kissed Lexi on the forehead. “Think of it as preparation for Mr. Right.”

“Mr. Right?” Lexi’s stomach suddenly hollowed out. The twinkle in her grandmother’s eyes only made it worse.

“How are you supposed to know what you are looking for if you’ve only ever really dated one man?” Pricilla stood and gathered the dishes. “Your mother’s problem was she would never go out with a Mr. Wrong, so everyone became Mr. Right. If you date a bunch of different men with no pressure about the future, you won’t mistake a Wrong for a Right ever again. That way you’ll know a Right when you meet him.”





Lexi ducked into Picker’s Produce, Meats, and More, grabbed a bar of specialty chocolate, and managed to sneak past the owner, Mrs. Craver, who was arguing with Mr. Craver—her estranged husband, who also happened to be the butcher.

Normally Lexi would say hello and politely inquire as to how things were in the grocers’ business, but today she was in a rush. She needed some kind of citrus for her citrus-infused chocolate sauce and a few minutes to pull herself together before she went back to the bakery, where three very opinionated grannies were setting the table for lunch.

Lexi had wanted to thank Pricilla for letting her stay in the apartment, and ChiChi for giving her grandmother a place to live until Lexi found her own pad. What she hadn’t wanted was to endure an hour-long interrogation about yesterday’s date with Mr. Monday Night, especially since Mr. Monday Night had turned out to be every bit a Monday: jarring, exhausting, and a calamity of errors. He was cute in that finance-guy kind of way and late in that my-meeting-ran-over-and-it-will-never-happen-again kind of way. The only thing he did get right was the never-going-to-happen-again portion of the evening.

When she’d decided to move back to St. Helena and Pricilla had insisted on Lexi taking over the apartment completely, she had believed her grandmother’s intentions to be pure. A quiet place for Lexi to grieve and reassess. Now, after seeing her list of bachelors, the only thing Lexi had reassessed was Pricilla’s motive—she didn’t want her granddaughter to have to fiddle with a sock on the doorknob.

Well, Grandmère, you moved out in vain, Lexi thought. She was done with knobs, fiddling or otherwise.

Her heels clicked on the barn-style wood floors, stopping right before she reached the white painted line that separated Mr. Craver’s part of the store—the butcher’s shop—from Mrs. Craver’s part—everything else. The specialty grocer had been around since 1894 and the Cravers for about as long. Marilee asked for a divorce about a year after they were married, and Biff denied her request on the grounds that the divorce would make his wife happy. Livid, Marilee painted a white line down the middle of the store and told her husband that if he ever crossed the line she’d claim crime of passion. And the fighting had been going on ever since.

Lexi dropped two Valencia oranges into her basket and then paused, looking at the sour oranges two barrels over. She picked one up and smelled it, the bitter scent tickling the tip of her nose. The blood orange might be too sweet, but was the sour one too acidic?

She didn’t know. And that made her nervous. Today’s lunch was special because it was the first time she would be cooking for her grandmother since Jeffery left her for chicken noodle soup. Too bad that it was not the first time since discovering the affair that Lexi had been unsure of what ingredients would work best. Not a good sign for her future as a Michelin-starred chef hopeful.

“Bought some of those last week. Biggest mistake of my life.”

Lexi turned and found Nora Kincaid, current treasurer of the Daughters of the Prohibition and a big enough busybody to give ChiChi a run for her money, hunched over her shopping cart, her teeth bared in what appeared to be a smile.

“Why’s that?” Lexi asked, even though she knew better. But she was having a crisis of the culinary kind and needed help.

“Bitter, I tell you. Made me salivate until my Harvey though I’d gone rabid.” Nora grabbed the orange and set it back in the barrel with a disgusted tut, and Lexi wasn’t so sure it was the salivation that had led Harvey to that conclusion. “If you ask me, things here have been going downhill ever since Marilee started selling produce from Chile.”

Nora shot a glance at Marilee, who was standing behind the cash register, and dropped her voice. “I hear it’s because Biff told her that real Americans didn’t sell foreign wares and he would have nothing to do with it. She told him that real men don’t need so many little blue pills to make it happen down there and then started importing things from all over.”

Nora leaned in closer. “My Harvey never needed any of those blue pills. His plumbing works just fine, and I do my job as a wife.”

“Um, congratulations,” Lexi said, looking around, not sure what she was supposed to say.

“Oh my. This is awkward, isn’t it? I didn’t mean to imply—” Nora glanced down at Lexi’s bare ring finger, and before Lexi could defend herself against the nonimplication, Nora changed the subject. “Nonetheless, I’m glad I ran into you.”

Lexi wasn’t sure she could return the sentiment.

“Your grandmother signed on to provide all the pastries for the Book Walk this Saturday.”

“I saw it on her calendar.” The Book Walk was run by the Community Action Committee and helped the library raise funds for new books. Pricilla had been the food vendor of choice ever since Lexi could remember.

“Last month we advertised her being there, and she only showed up with enough pastries to feed a handful of people,” Nora sniffed. “So unless you can promise me provisions for half the town, I’m going to have to give her contract to someone else.”

“What?” Lexi stammered. “No, my grandma loves that event.” She had no idea what the real story was, but if Pricilla was shorting her customers, then it wasn’t good. “There’ll be more than enough for everyone. I promise.”

“Good, because my grandson Grayson is taking you to BoVine Thursday night, and he doesn’t like flaky women.” The woman gave Lexi a slow and thorough once-over. The wag of her head told Lexi she’d come up short. “He’s also never needed a blue pill. But just to be safe, try dressing to inspire, dear.”

Lexi looked down at her dress. It was fun, cute, and showed just enough cleavage to be flirty. She set her basket down and tugged at the neckline of her dress. Still not satisfied, she gave another tug.

“Any lower and Mr. Craver might just fall over the counter.”

She looked up. Nora was gone and—

Great.

Marc leaned against the display housing cucumbers and zucchini. Dressed in a pair of cargo shorts, a gray shirt that hugged his muscular chest, and a navy baseball cap, he held a bag of beef jerky, a power drink, and enough raw testosterone to make what should have been vineyard casual look ruggedly sexy—and extremely inspiring.

“It’s the hair,” he said, and she agreed. He had really great hair. Even though it was only peeking out the back of the cap, she knew it was dark and thick, and she understood why women would want to run their fingers through it—other women, that is, not her.

She’d given in to lust with Jeffery, and look where that had gotten her. Nope, not a cycle she was interested in repeating anytime soon.

“I meant your hair,” he said, reaching up and taking out the elastic band she was wearing. Her hair came loose and tumbled down her back.

When he ran his fingers through it a few times and then pulled it forward over her shoulder, his hand grazing her bare skin, her body started to tingle. And when he murmured, “Hair like yours should never be pulled back,” that annoying tingle became a full-blown hum.

No way in hell, she thought, taking a step back. Not him.

She didn’t have the time for men right now. And she didn’t have the experience with men to tangle with a guy like Marco DeLuca—ever.

Her first thought was to grab her oranges and run. Then she remembered that Marc loved food almost as much as she did. That she still hadn’t figured out what was wrong with her sauce. And that she was tired of running from men.

Sexy hum or not.

She grabbed a dark-chocolate bar from her basket and broke off a square. “Open up.” He did, and she shoved it in his mouth. “Now smell this.” She placed the Valencia orange to his nose.

“It smells really”—he cracked a smile—“orangey.”

“Orangey? That all you’ve got?”

“Fruity?” He shrugged matter-of-factly, but his eyes were twinkling with humor.

“Never mind, smell this.” She grabbed the sour orange and put it to his nose.

His nostrils flared, and he scrunched up his face. Dang it. Why was this so hard? She was picking out an acid for her sauce, for God’s sake. It was Cooking 101.

“What were you hoping for?”

“Well, not fruity or orangey, and definitely not—” She mimicked his disgusted expression, and he laughed. “I was hoping for more tart, I guess. It’s for a sauce to go over a pepper-crusted lamb chop.”

He turned the bill of his cap backward and surveyed the choices. Lexi was too busy trying not to survey him to notice how many varieties of oranges the store offered.

“How about this?” He broke off a chunk of chocolate and held it to her mouth. When she didn’t open, he teased it across the seam of her lips until she parted them on a gasp. He slid the chocolate in and she nearly moaned, because of the chocolate or the fluttering going on in her girly region, she didn’t know.

Marc reached behind him, and when he turned back around, he stared down at her with those intense brown eyes and cocked a brow. She figured what the hell and opened.

“Oh my God,” she moaned, savoring the bitter and tart and dissecting each individual taste. “Is that a kumquat? I never would have thought to add that. It’s incredible.”

“Yes, you would have. You made me a chocolate cake with these things on the top for my eighteenth birthday.”

She had. How had she forgotten that? And why had he remembered?

“How many do you need?” he asked, smiling smugly.

“About twenty, I guess. They’re so small.”

Marc bagged her citrus and dropped it in her basket. Bending over, he grabbed the handles and strode off—with her groceries.

“What are you doing?” She followed behind him.

“What else do you need?” He didn’t slow down.

“What I need is to carry my own basket to the counter and pay so I can get home.”

“Great, checkout it is.” He never broke his stride and wouldn’t give up the basket.

“Fine,” she conceded, looking at his groceries, “but I need a few things first.”