“Seriously, don’t finish that sentence.”
His lips clamp shut to hold in a laugh. “Fine.”
My arms cross over my chest. “I’ll never eat all that.”
“Maybe it’s for me. Not all of us subsist on caffeine and chocolate alone.”
“You planning on bringing it back to your place?” I ask.
“No, but I am planning to spend a lot of time at your place, now that we’ll be having sex every night.”
“You’re delusional.” I snort. “And you also need a carriage. The handles on that thing are about to snap.”
He scoffs. “Men don’t push carriages. It’s against the laws of nature.”
“So you’d rather walk around giving yourself carpal tunnel from carrying all that?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Aww, snookums, what have I told you about being so sweet to me in public?” He makes eye contact with the woman shopping for applesauce ten feet down the aisle and winks suggestively at her. “You should hear her in the bedroom.” He gestures at me. “Total drill sergeant, this one.”
The woman glances at me with wide eyes, then turns her back and quickly walks away. She doesn’t even take her applesauce.
“I hate you,” I hiss, fighting off a blush as I whirl to face Parker — who, I might add, is grinning like he’s just won the lottery.
“Come on.” He laughs. “Grab your peanut butter cups. I’ll meet you up front.”
There’s really nothing to do but roll my eyes as he pivots on one heel and strides to the front of the store, somehow looking handsome and put together after very little sleep, while wearing his raunchy holiday sweater from yesterday. I follow at a slower pace, stopping to grab a six-pack of diet soda and a jumbo bag of Reese’s on my way. When I reach the front, I make sure to get into a different checkout line so Parker can’t pull any macho crap by attempting to pay for my groceries.
There’s an old lady in front of me, struggling with the credit card reader. The conveyer-belt is practically empty, except for some cans of soup, a box of crackers, and a few rolls of toilet paper.
“Ma’am, as I told you, starting last week we only accept cash or chip-enabled credit cards.” The cashier crosses her arms over her chest impatiently. “You can’t use that card here.”
“Chip-enabled?” the white-haired woman asks. “I don’t know what that is.”
The cashier sighs. “Call your card company. They’ll send you one.”
“But I need these groceries today. Even if they send a new card, it’ll take at least a week to get here.” The woman’s voice trembles a bit. “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Come back with cash.”
“All— all right.” The woman is visibly distressed. “I suppose I’ll have to do that.”
“Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I have a line.” The cashier looks pointedly at me and the three other people waiting. “So, I’m going to need you to—”
“Here,” I say without thinking, reaching into my wallet and pulling out a twenty. “How much are her groceries? I’ll pay for them.”
“It’s $17.50,” the cashier tells me.
“Perfect.” I pull out another twenty. “Just throw it all in with mine, I’ll pay for it together.”
“Oh, no,” the elderly woman protests quietly, grabbing my arm. “I couldn’t possibly—”
“It’s already done.” I pass over the money and smile at her.
“Thank you,” she whispers, clearly embarrassed. “I usually have cash with me, but I was in a hurry this morning and—”
“Don’t worry about it.” I shrug and toss my stuff in a clear plastic bag. “The new chip technology is a big pain in the ass, if you ask me. But if you call the number on the back of your card, they’ll send you an updated one.”
She smiles and takes her bag from the cashier. “I’ll do that when I get home. Can I at least pay you back?”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
Her hands curl around the bag handles. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
“Then don’t.” I smile at her as she nods, turns, and walks out of the store.
I’m still smiling as I shove my change into my purse. When I go to grab my bag, I find Parker’s already got it looped around his arm alongside his own groceries. He’s waiting right at the end of the checkout line, watching me carefully.
“What?” I narrow my eyes at him. “Why are you giving me that look, playboy?”
“No reason,” he murmurs, suppressing whatever emotion I just saw in his eyes. “Come on, Zoe. Let’s make like a tree.”
“And leaf?” I snort and hold open the door for him — his arms are full of groceries. “I didn’t realize you were in fourth grade.”
“What do you have against a good pun?”
“Besides the fact that they’re the lowest form of humor?”
“Baby, I’m the pun master. I’ve got puns for days.”
“How nice for you.”
We walk in silence for a half block. That’s as long as he can contain himself.
“You know, sometimes when I get naked in the bathroom, the shower gets turned on.”
I sigh. “Stop.”
“I couldn’t remember how to use a boomerang, but don’t worry, it came back to me.”