Chapter 8 #2
She guides me to the mouth of a cavernous aisle where a woman with curly hair and a blue apron smiles broadly at anyone passing by her table. She waggles a cup of some kind of granola at potential customers. Couples and families and solo shoppers stream past her, though some stop.
“Have you never been to Costco before?” Remy asks.
“I don’t really do the shopping in the family.” I don’t know a lot of pro hockey players who do, but I don’t say that since I’ll sound like a privileged dick. Truth is, I haven’t been to a big warehouse store like this in ages. Decades probably.
“We’ll talk about that another time, but for now, would you like a sample of cereal, Lake?”
“I want nothing more,” I say, locking eyes with her, even though that’s not entirely true.
I do want something more. But that’s something I can’t have, so for now, we stride past the hordes to the table.
“Would you like to try some granola that’s been elevated by a dusting of chocolate?” the curly-haired woman asks.
“You just named two of my favorite things,” I say.
“We even have milk.”
I turn to Remy, bringing a hand to my head, the sign for mind blown. “You didn’t tell me they had milk with their cereal samples.”
“I didn’t think I needed to.”
I turn to the woman. “Is this place heaven?”
She smiles. “No, it’s Costco.”
The woman picks up the milk and waggles it, as if asking permission to pour the oat milk on the cereal, and I say yes. She does, then hands me a small cup of chocolate-dusted granola along with a wooden spoon.
I take a bite, and my taste buds sing. “It’s crunchy, just a little bit sweet, and the perfect amount of wetness,” I say, meeting Remy’s eyes. A blush spreads across her cheeks. And, damn, it looks good. I offer it to her. “Want some too?”
“I’d never let my date eat cereal solo,” she says with a twinkle in her eye.
The certainty in her statement knocks the breath from my lungs.
Date.
She’s getting into this fake date plan. After bringing the spoon to her mouth, she takes a bite. And I don’t even attempt to look away as she drags the spoon past those ruby red lips. I don’t attempt it because I can’t do it. She has the prettiest lips I’ve ever seen.
She closes her eyes briefly. “Mmm. That’s delicious, and I clearly need to get some.”
The sample woman pumps a fist. “Mission accomplished.”
But the real mission apparently is the rules of dating, because as we head down the cereal aisle in hot pursuit, Remy says, “Column D in my spreadsheet. How we began.”
“What’s in columns A, B, and C?”
“A is for the date, as in the day of the week. B is blank for ease of reading. And C is for the timeline, as in the number of days since we theoretically started seeing each other.”
I laugh. “That’s…adorable.”
“It’s not adorable. It’s organized.”
“Same thing.”
“Aren’t you the hockey player who’s known for putting on his gear in the same order each time?” she fires back.
She’s never in the locker room when we dress. “How did you know that?”
She laughs, like really? “Your teammates tease you about it. I have ears!”
“Fine,” I grumble.
“Which makes you organized, too, then. Is organization still adorable?”
“I’m superstitious,” I mutter.
“Adorably, superstitiously organized,” she says, then squares her shoulders, passing a towering stack of Cheerios.
“In any case, when someone at the picnic asks how we started dating, obviously the timeline is going to be quite new since everyone knows I was just dumped,” she says, owning it.
“We need to figure out what feels most reasonable.”
We stop in front of a box of Corn Flakes so large it looks like a bicycle could fit in it.
My answer is decisive. “When you realized I was really the man for you and not that jackass who doesn’t deserve you.”
“That’s what you want me to say?”
“Sounds realistic, doesn’t it?”
She pauses, looks down at her shoes—they’re strappy again, and I want to undo the little strap—and seems to give it some thought. “As good as that sounds, I’m not sure it’s on brand.”
“On brand for who?”
She gives an apologetic smile. “My sister. I want everything to look good for her wedding, so I can’t really insult the best man.”
I shake my head. “That guy’s a douche.”
“Why do you think he’s a douche?”
I scoff, since it’s obvious. “Because he broke up with you. It’s that simple,” I say, continuing a few more steps to the granola of our dreams. I grab two boxes, tossing them into the bag. “One for you. One for me.”
“Wow. You’re a good grocery date.”
“I’m a good everything date.” I’m thinking about our origin story as we round the corner, where I spot a mustached guy an aisle away offering cheese and crackers at a sample table.
I stop in my tracks. A smile forms as I turn to her.
“I think you should say I asked you out every single day since he broke up with you, and you finally said yes this past weekend.”
“You do?” Her tone sounds enchanted, like that’s a delightful way to have been pursued.
“Sounds realistic to me.”
“And it’s kind of romantic,” she says. Clearly, she likes this direction.
Might as well pad the lead. “Why don’t we just say I’ve been pining for you from afar, and I wasn’t going to miss my chance the second you were single,” I say as if I just came up with that on the spot.
Her smile spreads, matching the sparkle in those brown eyes. “That’s perfect.”
She sounds so sweet and happy, and those are beautiful sounds. I want to hear them again and again, so I ask, “What else is on that spreadsheet? We need to figure out where we went on our first date.”
“Well, obviously, we went to Costco for the samples.” She nods toward the cheese guy, who’s wearing some kind of red and white old-timey shirt with an old-fashioned candy store vibe.
We head over to his table, where Remy says hi, then grabs a sea salt cracker with a slice of Monterey Jack and offers it to me. I take the cracker then bite into it, and holy shit, it’s good. “It just gets better and better. Like this date.”
“Guess I haven’t entirely lost my date planning touch,” she says, then snags a sample for herself, thanking the guy, then moaning approvingly after she crunches into it.
“We’re both going to need those too,” I say.
The man smiles, like he’s pleased his cheese brought us together or something. “Like I always say, there’s nothing cheesy about a date with Monterey Jack.”
Remy gives a kind laugh. “Thanks again for the sample.”
“You’re welcome. Sometimes, you just gotta cheese the day.”
“Words to live by,” she says, and waves goodbye. Yep, that’s her style—chatting with everyone. It’s sweet, though definitely not my style.
We head down the cracker aisle, then stop by a woman offering olive samples, then I discover—yes, this is heaven—someone offering mini pizzas.
I inhale two, but I rein it in. Though we do go down the frozen aisle and snag some mini pizzas.
As we walk, I have half a mind to set my hand on the small of her back.
Which brings up a critical question. “What does your spreadsheet say about physical affection?”
She turns around in front of the cold case, her brow furrowed, gaze thoughtful. “I guess we’ll have to be reasonably affectionate.”
“Define reasonably affectionate,” I say.
Please say it involves spreading you out on the bed and making you scream harder than you ever have before.
Her cheeks pinken again.
From the way she stared at my chest to her breath hitching, I’m wondering if Remy is on the same cell in her spreadsheet that I’m on.
“Hand holding,” she begins, like she’s checking off items on a list.
I don’t waste time. I reach for her hand and slowly, teasingly slide my fingers through hers. Her hand is soft and warm, and when I run the pad of my thumb across her palm, a tremble seems to move through her. Her eyes flare. Such a good fucking look.
I clasp our hands tighter. “How about an arm around your waist?”
She nods. Quickly. “That sounds like a good idea too.”
I let go of her hand and set down the bag, then move closer to coast an arm across her lower back. Goosebumps erupt on my skin. It’s dangerous how good this feels. To breathe her in. To inhale that clean, floral scent of her hair. To touch her.
I need more.
“And this?” I take the lead as I shift closer, tuck a strand of hair over her ear, the move making her dangling earrings sway.
They’re little stars, and I touch the point of one, then barely brush my finger against her earlobe.
I’m burning up already even in this chilly aisle.
“Is that reasonably affectionate?” I rasp out.
She slides her teeth along her lower lip, then whispers, “Very, very reasonable.”
Heat roars through me, a low, persistent buzz. I’m dying to ask about kissing. But she’s so fantastically flustered right now that I’m thinking it’s best to leave her wanting more.
“Let’s figure the rest out later. I should get you home.”
We grab the pizza boxes and head to the checkout, where I don’t even give her a chance to take out her phone.
“Lake, I was going to pay,” she says as I swipe my phone across the tap screen.
“No, you weren’t,” I say, emphatic.
“Lake, seriously. I don’t want you to have to pay for anything,” she says on the way through the lot. “You’re doing me a favor.”
I stop at my car, where I pop the trunk. “There’s nothing about this that’s a favor,” I say in no uncertain terms.
I drive her back to her home in the Marina, not far from the bridge, giving me enough time to easily get home to Dad before the library closes. When I cut the engine, I say, “Hold on.”
“Right. I need to grab my groceries.”
“Yes, but that’s not why I said hold on.
” I reach into the back seat and grab a gift bag from Whiskers and Kisses in Cozy Valley.
For a hot second, nerves dart down my spine.
It’s kind of a romantic gift, and who the hell knows how it’ll go over?
I’m no dating expert. But I’d bet the puck from my first ever pro goal that her douchey ex sucked at gifts. “I got you a hummingbird feeder.”
I offer it to her, but she makes no move to take it at first. Just kind of looks at me curiously. “Lake Axelrod,” she says, as if she’s speaking my name for the first time.
“Yeah?”
“I wasn’t expecting a gift. I’m not used to them.”
Called it. “Get used to them now. You’re dating me.” I check the time. I’ve got a few minutes to spare, and giving a gift isn’t always enough. “I’ll hang it up.”
“I can do that.”
“But it’s what a good fake boyfriend would do.” I’m not losing this battle with her—I intend to show her what she deserves.
She gestures to the porch. “I’ll be sure to add it to my spreadsheet for tracking our dating history—hung up a hummingbird feeder after our first date.”
“Good idea,” I say, even though it’s not the fake boyfriend in me that’s doing this.
Not one bit.
* * *
When I return home, my arms are laden with hardbacks, the well-worn scent of old paper from the library books drifting past my nose. Ironic, since my sister runs a bookstore, but it’s a romance shop and my dad’s still into the hard-boiled mysteries he’s always loved.
“Got your latest Damon Cross right here,” I say, patting the new release, as a big, burly Siamese cat leaps from who knows where onto the middle of the table, his white paws skidding across the wood, hellbent on the almost-done puzzle.
“Thor,” I call out to the little shit, who clips the edge of the puzzle, knocking loose a corner piece and some friends.
Dad chuckles. “He’s such a turd.”
“He’s a cat, so yes,” I say, then bend to pick up the pieces, but Dad’s already waving me off.
“I got it.” He doesn’t like me to help him with things he can do for himself.
I step back and let him. “Almost done,” he says, grabbing the remaining pieces that my asshole cat knocked off.
“Has he been bad?”
“Course he has,” my dad says, but it’s with affection. Dad sits back down and in no time Thor leaps onto his lap and proceeds to play the piano on my dad, like he’s saying all is forgiven, right?
Dad pets him like yes, he’s still the best boy, then he looks at me. “What have you been up to?”
“Just went to the store,” I say evasively, since I don’t want to get into the details of the Remy situation. It’s far too complicated. “Got some cereal and mini pizzas.”
He arches a dubious brow. “You don’t shop.”
“But I know how to.”
He scoffs. “Was there a woman involved?”
“Dad,” I warn, but inside I’m thinking how does he see through me like that?
“It’s been three years.”
I want to tell him it’s been a while for him too.
Mom left a long, long time ago—when Clem and I were in high school—and Dad dated some after that but not much.
There’s no need to point out the dearth of dates for him since it’s not like he’s going to go on a date here in the house. “I’m fine,” I say.
“You should date again, Lake,” he says, and there’s a twinkle in his blue eyes—a twinkle I haven’t seen in ages.
He was fond of Heather, or really, fond of Heather and me.
He’d even venture outside on the ranch with us to say hi to the horses or check out the egrets—even to look for the owls.
A pang of missing lodges into my chest for those days, those moments of sunshine and fresh air for him.
“Really, you should,” he adds, just shy of plaintive.
I flash back to the moment in the car earlier with Remy, to my own reticence about what to say to my teammates or to her boss about dating. Would it make Dad happy if I was dating? Maybe, just maybe, it would. I like that spark in his eyes.
It’s not a lie, really, to say, “There’s someone I’m kind of into.”
He pats the chair. “Tell me about her.”