5. Coraline
5
CORALINE
“Out of the way, youth .” The warning hits my ears a second before the edge of a grocery cart grazes my hip.
I jump to the left, narrowly dodging the cart return in the parking lot of Harold’s Supermarket. My hand flies to the sore spot, my fingers pressing tightly against the ache. My gaze narrows as I recognize the back of Mrs. Handler’s head—her silver hair twisted into a perfect chignon.
“Thanks for the head’s up,” I call out, inflecting my voice with that southern sweet tone my grandma taught me years ago. There’s fifteen feet of available space to my right that she could have pushed her cart on, but that wouldn’t be her way.
Mrs. Handler responds by flipping the bird over her shoulder. She doesn’t even break her stride. If anything, her anger seems to give her some pep in her step.
I narrow my eyes on her retreating form, letting the sun bake away my own frustrations. Regret fills me like a mouth full of sour grapes. The grocery store on a Saturday afternoon might’ve been my worst idea ever, and that’s saying something considering I once let my older brothers cut my hair in the third grade. Beau put a bowl over my head and Graham started chopping. Thank god Mom walked in before he got too far. I had the worst pair of choppy fringe bangs for a few months until I grew them out long enough to tie back.
But I convinced myself that I can be quick today. I only need a few things. In and out, fast.
Just like your last boyfriend , my subconscious adds with a snicker. Her voice sounds more like my cousin’s than mine, but since she’s the best person I know, I take it as a good sign.
I snort before I can stop myself and exhale a breath.
“Don’t take it personally.”
The soft voice startles me, and I jerk my head to the left, finding the owner of the advice. “What?”
A woman stands between two SUVs, the rear driver’s side door open and a handful of reusable grocery bags stacked on the seat. “Mrs. Handler,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward me and nodding toward the grocery store with a smirk. “I said don’t take it personally. She’s like that to everyone who isn’t local.”
“Oh, yeah, I know her.” My brows dip as I look at her. She’s around my age if I had to guess, dressed in a faded band tee, hair tangled in an artfully messy bun.
She smiles and wipes her hands along her jean shorts. “Then you already know not enough luck in the world is going to help you in there today,” she says around a laugh, nodding toward the grocery store.
A wince scrunches my face up. “That bad, huh?”
“Worse.” She laughs as she bumps her car door closed with her hip.
My brows lift toward my hairline. “Love that for us.”
“May the odds ever be in your favor,” she says with a dip of her chin, climbing into her car.
I grin at the familiar line, deciding that I like this girl. She climbs into her SUV with a wave and a wane smile. I jerk my chin up and continue my trek across the parking lot. Determination fills me with every slap of my sandals on the pavement, until I’m greeting the arctic blast of air conditioning with a wide smile. After Mom’s reminder about Grant-the-asshole and my roommate bailing on the concert, I need the joy that only baking can provide. And I can’t do that without the proper tools.
I snag a basket and tuck the handles in the crook of my elbow, nodding my hello to a few familiar faces. My apartment is technically in Rosewood city limits, but my bakery is in the town next door, Avalon Falls. So on days like today, when I don’t feel like getting trapped in a conversation with Mrs. Willaby about her rabbits sneaking out of their cages and eating her garden, I opt for the grocery in Avalon Falls.
I keep my gaze forward and weave around the carts, heading toward the produce. I’m going to try my favorite yellow apples in this pie today. I usually opt for the classic Granny Smith, but I’m looking for something with a more delicate flavor profile. I reach for a perfect golden yellow apple at the same time another hand lands on it.
“Oh,” I exhale with a small laugh. “Sorry.” My breath catches in the back of my throat as my gaze lands on the back of the hand on top of mine, unmistakably familiar with its long fingers. Calloused fingertips that used to trace gentle patterns between the freckles on my back while we were tangled up in his sheets.
The memory sends an involuntary shiver down my spine, and I have to blink several times to clear it from my head. My gaze is greedy, eagerly following the path of his arm, lingering on the intricate tattoos that snake up his forearm. I remember tracing those tattoos on more than one occasion. My heart beats an uncomfortable rhythm inside my chest, dread and something sweeter churning inside of me like a maelstrom. Until finally, I connect with those achingly familiar whiskey eyes, still sparkling with the same warmth and amusement.
Time seems to stand still as we look at one another, flickers of our past burning between us like holiday sparklers. The air crackles, the kind of electric charge you can almost smell before a lightning storm. A baby cries nearby, and it breaks whatever weird spell I was under. And instead of sweet moments, I remember all the bad shit between me and the Rosewood Reaper asshole in front of me.
If you ask the Rosewood residents, they’d have nothing but good things to say about the local motorcycle club and its members. But that’s because most of them are a bunch of perverts and love to watch the men wash cars shirtless for the local animal shelter’s annual car wash. But me? I know better.
Sure, my cousin Evangeline happens to be in a loving relationship with three Reapers—including their president and VP. And yeah, I guess Green is alright for helping me out of a jam last winter. And maybe I went to school with a few of them and they’re okay too.
But not Jagger.
Jagger is a lying, cheating, big-dicked asshole who can’t be trusted with anything, least of all an apple. And definitely not my apple.
I curl my fingers over the fruit in question as I narrow my eyes at the man in front of me. “Are you lost, Reaper? You’re in the wrong town.”
He tightens his grip over mine, his eyes brightening with further amusement. “Nah, baby. I’m exactly where I need to be.”
My upper lip stretches into a sneer, and I yank the apple out from under his hand. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me baby?” I tsk, relaxing my face into an exaggerated expression of faux-understanding. “Or is it a placeholder name because you can’t keep track of who’s in your bed, hm?”
Jagger drags his thumb across his bottom lip with a low chuckle, dipping his head a little bit. Dark fringed lashes blink slowly, his whiskey eyes darkening as he looks at me. “I know exactly who’s in my bed.”
Anger surges through me, quick and hot. I shuffle my weight to my other foot and twist my lips into a smirk. “You and every other man in the clubhouse.”
“You jealous, baby?” he muses with a little hum.
“Not even remotely. I don’t share.” I deliver the quip with a smile sweet and fake enough to give myself a cavity. It’s a nice little dig at our history. “Not that I expect you to remember.” Not that I expect you to remember me is what I want to say. But I’d rather eat hot dogs for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the rest of my life than ever admit anything to this man.
“Now come on, baby. We both know the truth.” He rocks back on his heels, but that pleasant expression never leaves his face.
His goddamn handsome face.
Just the fact that he looks so fucking good in his dark jeans, dark tee, and dark boots in the middle of a scorching summer irritates me. I blame the heat on the delay, but then his words hit me like a five-pound sack of flour. Resentment coils around my anger, strengthening it until it’s a formidable force.
I step into him and ignore the way his delicious scent wraps around me. It makes me feel like I’m on a white sand beach, about to walk into the clearest blue water with a half-naked Adonis of a man.
I swallow and shove away my body’s response to his scent. “I wouldn’t give you my apple if you were the last man on Earth.” I arch a brow, rotating my wrist to display the fruit between us.
“Is that right, hm?” The edge of his mouth arches upward in a slow grin. He laughs, a deep, maddening sound that I hate to admit is pleasant. “And here I thought you might've mellowed out since Evangeline shacked up with Prez. Guess I was wrong,” he says, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
And like some heat-seeking missile, my gaze flies to the plump curve of his lips. I remember what they feel like dragging across the most delicate parts of my skin. Memories I’ve tried my hardest to bury for years now. I’m distracted long enough for him to pluck the apple from between my fingers.
Without breaking eye contact, he takes a deliberate bite of the apple, the crisp sound filling the small space between us. As he chews, a bead of juice escapes, sliding down his chin. I watch, irritated and mesmerized, as he swipes it away with his tongue, the casual, intimate gesture stirring something deep within me that I wish I could ignore.
He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow. “Want a bite?” he asks, his voice dropping to a mocking murmur, holding the apple out to me.
For a moment, I’m torn between stepping back and stepping closer, the familiar dance of attraction and irritation pulling me in opposite directions. “Maybe I do,” I reply, my voice steady, but my heart pounding in my chest, a challenge flickering in my eyes. “But not from you.”