“Thanks, man,” I tell him, tossing the bag of chocolate chips in the air and walking a few paces down, looking for the Hershey’s syrup when a blur to my left catches my attention. That’s when I smell her—the same citrusy scent mixed with the sterility of a hospital.
Glancing up, I feel my luck begin to shift. “Nurse Frankie,” I muse, snatching a bottle of Hershey’s from the shelf directly in front of her and earning a scowl. When her eyes meet mine, I expect a shift in demeanor but she schools her features.
“Your face looks good.”
It’s not a compliment, at least, not for me. She’s complimenting herself on a job well done.
“The stitches are holding nicely . . .” she says, evaluating her handy work. “Shouldn’t leave much of a scar.”
“Just enough to give me some street cred,” I tease. It’s the same thing I told Cage when he kept going on and on about how bad he felt. If it hadn’t been a rogue chain, it would’ve been a flying fist. I was bound to have a face wound at some point. So when it didn’t come from the ring, that didn’t discredit what it did for my face. “Admit it. I make this scar look good.”
Frankie rolls her eyes and grabs her own bottle of Hershey’s, tossing it in the shopping cart.
“Chocolate milk junkie?” I ask, wanting to make conversation with her. Maybe I could make a suggestion for putting that chocolate syrup to good use; I have a few ideas that all include the two of us naked.
What the fuck?
Shoot me. We’re both attractive human beings. I’m attracted to her . . . my dick is attracted to her.
“It makes my spinach smoothie taste better,” she deadpans, breezing past me.
Okay, so she’s a health nut. That’s cool. Me too.
“Have you tried powdered peanut butter?” I suggest. “Adds protein and tastes really good.”
She stops her cart and turns to glare at me, but her eyes become hazy as they study my face, her lips parting softly. Goddamn, she’s gorgeous.
For a moment, I think she’s going to finally acknowledge this zing of electricity that’s so obviously traveling between us. But instead, her stare shutters abruptly and she blinks, her jaw clenching tight. “I have five minutes before closing, five more aisles to make it through, and I’ve already exhausted all my bedside manner reserves for the day.”
“I’m not your patient anymore, Frankie.” I drop my voice, making her lashes flutter as I step closer. “You can be real with me.”
After another prolonged hazy stare that has the base of my spine warming, a sharpness enters her gaze and she flicks her hand through the air dismissively. “I doubt very much someone like you is capable of handling my realness, Mr. Erickson.” Her voice is a little breathless, and with that, she turns away.
Someone like you…
I can read between the lines, but it doesn’t mean I like what I read. Someone like me? Fun fact about someone like me: The bigger the challenge, the more I enjoy it. Unbeknownst to her, she just made this—changing her mind about guys like me—my new favorite pastime.
“All right. How about we start with the basics. So, do you come here often?” I ask evenly, trailing behind as we both turn down the canned food aisle. I smirk at the display of pork-n-beans, thinking about what Cage said. Apparently, Tempest once had an encounter with this very display that sent the cans flying. The mental image makes me laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Frankie snaps, and I realize she’s stopped again in the middle of the aisle, her death stare aimed straight for my head. “Are you really so dense that you can’t take a hint? Have all of those punches damaged your brain? Oh, wait. My bad. Y’all don’t have brains to damage in the first place.”
“Wow,” I say, raising my eyebrows and the two items I came for. “Judgmental much?”
To that, she balks, her back straightening and her expression shifting from anger to indignance. She scoffs, tilting her head as she blinks her eyes, trying to find a rebuttal. But I don’t let her. Instead, I decide it’s time to correct some of her ignorant misconceptions about someone like me.
“For your information,” I start, shifting both the chocolate chips and the syrup to one hand so I can point in her direction. “I graduated from college just like you. Yeah, I’m a fighter. I fucking love the sport, but that’s what it is—a sport. I don’t go out looking for backyard or back-alley brawls. I’m not in a gang and I’m not a streetfighter. There are codes and discipline involved. I am an athlete.”
Her expression finally softens, remorse shining from her eyes. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I just—I really don’t like violence.” I . . .” She takes a deep breath, and I get the sense saying these words is hard for her. “I don’t like it at all. I’m sure you’re a—”
“The store will be closing in three minutes. Please make your final selections and make your way to the front.” A crackling voice comes over the store intercom system, interrupting her and this moment we’re having.
Her eyes stay connected to mine for longer than a second and there’s something in those chocolate browns that has the short hair on the back of my neck standing at attention.
I think we’re having a moment.
“I have to go,” she says, pink staining her cheeks. Before I can say anything, she quickly walks away.
And just like that, it’s over.
I still want to know what she was going to say. I’m a what? Nice guy? She’d be right, I’m a really nice guy. Fun guy? Right again. A great lay? Ding, ding, ding. Someone she should go on a date with? Tell her what she’s won, Johnny.
Instead of prodding, I make my way to the checkout and place my two items on the belt, giving the cashier a crooked smile. “Sorry for keeping you so late.”
“Oh,” she says with a blush and a smile. “I don’t mind. Nothing else going on in this town.”
“Right?” I say, digging my wallet out and grabbing the twenty Tempest gave me earlier.
“Besides,” she continues, placing my two items in a bag, “Frankie is in here every Tuesday night, and always my last customer.”
She takes the twenty and for a second I think she’s going to stop there, but then she gives me a small smile with my change and continues, obviously desperate to make small talk. “She works at the hospital in Maryville and doesn’t get back in town until late.”
When I pocket the change and take the bag, the girl drops her voice and leans in, freely offering even more nuggets of information. “And between you and me, she doesn’t get out much. Except for the farmer’s market on Saturdays.”
Farmer's market, huh?
Why am I not surprised about that?
Chuckling to myself—small towns, man—I give the cashier a smile and thank her just as Frankie walks up to the counter and starts placing her items on the belt. She made fast work, at least doubling what had been in her basket a few minutes ago. I don’t look, but I can feel her eyes on me. I can sense her restlessness, like she wants to say something.
The cashier—Katie, according to her name tag—looks from me to Frankie and then back, obviously picking up on something between us. I decide to not make it awkward or cause Frankie any more grief for the night and give them both a short wave as I head out the door.