Chapter 22
MAREN
Ilean my hip against the shopping cart and try to read the label on this jar of pasta sauce for the third time. You’d think deciphering the contents of marinara would be easy.
Except, I read a word, and then, my mind drifts back to this afternoon.
I don’t even need groceries, but I knew if I stayed at home a moment longer, I’d lose my mind. Sitting, replaying those five minutes on repeat.
That man, the one who approached me in the parking lot, and his ugly bet. The way he gripped my arm, like he wouldn’t let go. The way he touched my hair.
The way he tried to tell me sweet things with a gross twist. How good I’d look taking his dick. I’d taken a shower when I got home and changed into comfort clothes. A T-shirt and soft drawstring pants.
I shake my head and put the pasta sauce back on the shelf. It’s not like I even need it, given I make my own pasta sauce from scratch. Occasionally, I’ll make a big batch and can it with my grandma’s canning supplies she kept in the storeroom.
A fluorescent light above the aisle flickers in a way guaranteed to induce a migraine. I should just grab some things I know I’ll use. Yogurt. Milk. Creamer. Pasta.
Because I heard this fuck bet his friend a hundred bucks that he’d fuck her before midnight. And given he wasn’t taking no for an answer, I decided to be the no.
I should be grateful Knox was there at all.
Suddenly, as if I conjured him, Knox turns the corner into my aisle. He’s carrying a basket that’s half-filled with lemons. Too many for one person to use.
For a second, my stomach does that silly drop at the sight of him. He’s changed from earlier. He’s wearing jeans that hug his ass perfectly, with a pale blue denim shirt beneath his cut. The sleeves are rolled up and…
I think about the way he held me in the parking lot. Quite literally, he kept me at arm’s length, offering no comfort.
But he offered you safety.
Bare. Minimum.
I drop my head and turn to hurry up the aisle.
“Maren. Wait.”
Shit.
Instead of acknowledging that I heard him, I keep walking. But a second later, I hear his boots hitting the tiled floor at a quick pace, and then a hand touches my shoulder.
“Maren. Hey.”
I stop beside the cans of fruit and turn slowly, but his hand remains on me. “What?”
He looks at me like he did while we were watching TV in the emergency apartment. When it felt intimate and special. Like there really was something between us. And his face looks so much more handsome than it did in the lot, where it had a mean edge and air of indifference.
“I was thinking of stopping by later to catch you.”
“Why?”
“So I could apologize.” But as he says the word, he looks nervously up and down the currently empty aisle.
I shrug his hand off my shoulder. “What exactly are you apologizing for?”
He shrugs boyishly. “All of it.”
I huff at that response. “Not accepted.” I turn and grab a can of peaches off the shelf, even though I know they’re packed with syrup and that fresh peaches are just about in season.
“Maren,” he says, as if I’m being unreasonable.
“You made your point; you don’t care about me. Shouldn’t be talking to me here either, which is why you keep looking up and down the aisle so often it’s like you’re watching tennis.”
His brow draws together. “That’s not what happened.”
“Oh, really. Because from where I was standing, it looked an awful lot like you decided it was more important to save face with your biker friends than it was to treat me like a human being who, as you pointed out, was on the verge of being assaulted.”
Tears threaten, stinging the bridge of my nose, and I furiously wipe the single one that escapes away.
His voice lowers, but I see the sympathy he isn’t vocally expressing, in his eyes. “Maren.”
“You keep saying my name like it matters, Knox. Your actions suggest otherwise. But, please, explain it to me like I’m five.”
He exhales slowly. “You agreed to keep this private.”
“I did.”
“And we were in front of my club.”
“We were.”
He tugs a hand through his hair. “So, what did you want me to do? I already went out on a limb to come and intervene in something I should never have intervened in.”
“What?” I ask. Fury flames in me. “Inter-fucking-vened in? So, if I’d been any other woman on any other day, you’d have just allowed that scumbag to go grab me in the parking lot.”
“You’re twisting my words, Maren. Of course, I would have kept an eye on the situation after I heard what he said.”
“And that’s another thing.” I’m mad now, and no amount of mindful thinking is going to calm me down.
“You knew of the stupid bet, but you didn’t think to stop the man before he even left his seat.
When you do that, you’re part of the problem.
If you’d stopped him right there at his table in the diner, he’d never have even touched me.
” I slam my basket to the ground and roll up the sleeve of my T-shirt.
“There. Yet another bruise that could have been avoided, right?”
I grab my basket and march out of the aisle.
But Knox keeps up with me. “You were about to throw yourself into my arms in the middle of the parking lot, and I didn’t have time to explain why you couldn’t.”
I spin on my heel and nearly collide with him. “You treated me like I was radioactive after a man tried to grab me in the parking lot. I was scared, Knox. Don’t you get it? My knees were shaking, and I’d never been more relieved to see someone as I was to see you.”
“It was our deal, to keep it private.”
“So you said.” My shoulders sag as the anger escapes me.
Intellectually, I understand why he made the call he did.
“I remember the deal. I was just utterly unprepared for how much it would hurt. My father has been embarrassed of me most of my life. Friends drifted away because they didn’t want to hang out with a cop’s daughter.
Apparently, you don’t either. And, in hindsight, that doesn’t feel like a healthy thing for me. ”
“I need to talk to you somewhere I can hold you,” Knox says. “I’m gonna follow you home.”
I shake my head. “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Shock hits his face in the O of his mouth and the furrow in his brow. “Now or ever?”
I take a breath and look over to the fish counter. I don’t know why anyone would ever buy fish wrapped in plastic when you can just drop a reel in the bay or go to the local markets.
“For the record, I get I was an asshole, Maren. I battled myself to not pull you to me. I’m sorry it hurt. My intention was the complete opposite.”
“But nothing changes, right?”
To be fair to Knox, I can see his conflict. Like, he wants something to change but isn’t prepared to make the shift.
“You know what?” I say. “Let’s not beat ourselves up. It was fun. And now, the reality of it has set in. Stay out of trouble, Knox.”
I head to the dairy department to pick up some yogurt and milk. But no sooner have I opened the chiller doors than Knox appears beside me again.
I tug out the milk. “Are you planning on following me through the whole store? Or are you actually going to finish your grocery shopping?”
“Fuck the grocery shopping.”
I step away from the cooler the same moment he steps forward, and we nearly collide. His hand comes out automatically, steadying me before I can lose my balance. For a second—just a second—his palm rests at my waist.
It’s warm and familiar in a way that makes my stomach twist.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“It was just a collision,” I say, stepping out of his touch.
He shakes his head. “No. After what happened today.”
I gesture between us. “Clearly not.”
He shakes his head again. “No. Not us. After what that guy tried to do. I’m sorry it happened. I’m truly sorry I didn’t comfort you more, after.”
His voice is quieter this time. Less defensive. More honest.
“I know why you did it. I don’t like it, but I get it,” I admit.
For a moment, we both stand in front of the dairy cooler like the strangers we really are.
“You sure I can’t follow you home?”
This time, it’s me shaking my head. “I’m sure.”
Finally, Knox clears his throat. “I should go and check out, then.” But there’s a hint of a dare. Like he’s willing me to give him a reason to stay and talk some more.
“Good idea.”
He studies me for a second. Even reaches out his knuckle to touch my cheek but drops it before it makes contact. Then, he heads to the register.
And I am left with feelings of loss that I have nowhere to put.
Emotions are a complicated and often volatile thing.
They make no sense. I want to run after him and tell him it’s okay.
That what happened today was miscommunication.
But the pain of standing in a lot, shaking, while a group of men who don’t know me, look at me like I’m dirt and say that they should have just left me to that man, is sharp.
I screw any thoughts of a useful list. Instead, I grab some of my favorite chocolate and a pack of fresh brownies. As I pass the freezer, I grab vanilla ice cream. It might be predictable to comfort eat, but I think I deserve it.
By the time I reach the checkout, Knox is long gone, which is probably for the best. I pay, gather my bags, and walk to the truck, hyperaware of my surroundings.
But there, on the hood of my truck, is a massive bundle of colorful roses.
I hurry to the truck bed and put the groceries inside before I walk to them and hold them to my face. There has to be at least two dozen of them. Maybe more.
The ridiculousness of it makes a smile sneak up on me before I can stop it.
“Idiot,” I mutter when I see the card. There, in Knox’s scrawl, is a message.
You make me want to be a better man. Call me. K.
Underneath it is his number.
Part of me is desperate to call it, but another part knows we’re playing with fire, and I’m the one whose house is most likely to burn down.