Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
A man in his mid-twenties is stocking canned fruit juice in the center aisle, and as we turn the first corner, I key in on the older man taking notes on a piece of paper as he looks over the meat counter.
I pause, my hand sliding out to press against the front of her cart when another shopping cart pops out from a different aisle. A mom with a little girl in the children's seat notices us, but her little girl is too distracted watching a show on a tablet to notice we're there.
The woman quickly pulls her eyes away from us and shuffles away.
"You scared her," Juliet mutters.
"I'm just standing here," I argue.
"It's the scowl," she counters.
"It's just my face," I grumble.
She pauses, her eyes fully on my face, and it makes me want to shift my weight from one foot to the other, but then her eyes drop, landing on my mouth.
It's literally insane, an unexplainable reaction, the way my body feels like I'm being struck by lightning every time she focuses on me.
I feel like a lottery winner, like a man whose prayers have been answered, even though it's been decades since I spoke to God.
"It's a nice face," she says with a shrug as she pulls her eyes away. "But you have this default death stare."
"I don't," I argue, knowing full well that I do.
I like talking to her, and it's just one more thing that fascinates me. I've never been much of a talker. I learned early in life that staying silent kept me safer, and when I did speak up, no one seemed to listen. Not the teachers at my school, not the nosy neighbor, and not even the doctor my mom took me to when I had a broken arm, a gift from my dad at twelve years old.
She laughs, and the sound wraps all the way around me, invading every sense, and as much as I'd like to just stand here and let it roam all over me, I can't. Getting distracted isn't an option.
Distraction is what gets people hurt, and I won't be the man who fails her on any level.
"So, what do you want?" she asks as she places a half loaf of fresh bread into the shopping cart.
"I don't need anything," I tell her.
She pauses, an annoyed look in her eyes as she crosses her arms over her chest.
"We aren't leaving until you get something," she says, and I can tell by the stubborn set of her jaw that she means it.
"What are you getting?" I counter.
"I'm not much of a cook, but I've been wanting chicken alfredo and tacos."
"I like both of those," I confess, not exactly hating the idea of sharing meals with her.
"Don't get too excited," she says with a flat smile. "I use jarred sauce."
"Sounds delicious," I say, because even with jarred sauce, chicken alfredo seems like a hassle anyway.
I'm not one to care much about what I eat, so long as my stomach doesn't grumble. I don't plan my days around food, and thankfully, there's always someone at the clubhouse who has cooked enough for others. I never go hungry, that's for sure.
"That's what I want," she says as she shifts her attention back to shopping. "What do you want?"
"I sometimes have a late-night sweet tooth," I confess, wondering if that makes me sound like a toddler.
"Like ice cream? Candy bars?" she asks without judgment.
For the first time since meeting her, I feel my own cheeks heat.
"Those little snack cakes with the colorful sprinkles on them," I say in almost a whisper.
I watch as she keeps her eyes straight ahead, as if she knows I don't want her looking my way, but her pretty lips curve into a smile, and her steps angle her toward the snack aisle.
She grabs the box off the shelf as she walks past, barely even slowing the cart.
The rest of her shopping is easy, and as she had said earlier, she only shopped for the things she plans to use over the next couple of days.
"What I'm saying is that's ridiculous," she argues after we leave the store.
"It's not," I argue.
"Your item was three dollars. The rest of my stuff was much more than that."
"Doesn't matter," I tell her.
"I didn't expect you to pay for the groceries."
"Maybe I'm being a little forward, but I thought I might be eating the food."
"Not all of it," she says as she folds the receipt and tucks it into her purse. "Plus, I owe you for keeping me safe."
"You don't owe me for-"
I freeze, my eyes on her car.
"What is it?" she asks, the lightness in her tone completely gone.
I pull out my phone and shoot off a text.
"Flat tire," I say, stepping in front of her and looking all around the parking lot.