Chapter 26
Andi
Nolan stays true to his word and picks me up half an hour later, on the dot, which is sexier than it has any right to be. Why am I getting so hot and bothered by a man who abides by a strict schedule? My standards are devastatingly low.
When he rolls up in a champagne-colored PT Cruiser, he has to honk the horn and wave me down through the crack in the window before I recognize him.
“Sorry! I didn’t realize it was you.” I inhale a potent cloud of floral perfume as I slide into the passenger seat. An Alanis Morissette song is playing faintly on the radio.
“Didn’t expect me to show up with these wheels?
” He pats the dashboard affectionately, as though it’s his trusty golden retriever, and flashes me a blindingly adorable smirk.
I promptly shift my gaze for my safety. Maybe hanging out with him today was a bad idea.
Maybe I’d said yes a little too hastily, without fully thinking it through.
“When you rolled the window down, I thought you were some creep offering me a ride or some loose candies,” I inform.
“I don’t have loose candies to offer you, unfortunately,” he says, digging around in the console between us. He extracts a worn, wrinkled ziplock bag of what looks like birdseed crushed into a fine dust. “But I do have this bag of my mom’s trail mix. Can’t confirm how long it’s been here.”
I snort, reaching for my seat belt. “That’s very generous of you, but I’m good.”
Once he confirms I’m securely fastened, he rests his ropy forearm lazily on the wheel as he pulls onto the street.
“Sorry for the subpar snacks and music. This is my mom’s car, which she inherited from my grandma when she died, if you were wondering.
The radio is permanently stuck on Easy Rock 103. 4.”
“Honestly, I kind of love this for you. I would have guessed you’d drive a truck, or something hardcore.”
His mouth parts ever so slightly as he shoulder-checks me. “Ha, good guess. I used to drive an old Jeep, actually. But it crapped out when I first came home. It sat around all winter while I was overseas. My mom doesn’t drive anymore so I’ve been commuting in this one.”
“Well, it very much suits you. Thanks for coming and offering to help, by the way. I was really stressed-out.” That’s putting it lightly.
When he called, I was close to a breakdown over almond flour, of all things.
Just hearing his deep, reassuring voice was enough to put me at ease.
Temporarily, at least. Because now, the nerves are bubbling to the surface in my chest like a shaken carbonated drink.
“We’ll try not to burn your apartment down.” He shoots me a quiver-inducing smile as we pull onto the highway.
The conversation is easy, like it always is.
We mostly talk about work. I tell him how the gala prep is going.
He tells me about his upcoming travel with Eric to Montreal and how he needs to pick up some groceries for his mom for while he’s gone anyway.
It strikes me how sweet he is to his mom, despite what he told me about their relationship and his childhood.
I shift into the passenger-side door until my shoulder is squished against it, trying to resist the overwhelming, unsettling urge to hug him.
Thankfully, all it takes is one glance at the Costco parking lot to evaporate all those warm, fuzzy feelings.
It’s an absolute madhouse, with lines of cars zipping up and down rows in search of someone leaving.
“Does this place always require police to direct traffic?” I ask genuinely, eyeing the stone-faced police officer in the intersection.
“Oh yeah. It can get pretty wild,” he replies, nodding toward the fray. “I once witnessed a fistfight over a parking spot. A guy threw his fully loaded hot dog at the car’s windshield.”
“What a waste of a hot dog.”
“That’s what I said.” He turns left, only to get honked at as we attempt to go down a lane, and then another, getting stuck behind at least five other cars vying for spots. Another loud honk pierces the air.
“Did that person honk at us? How are you so calm?”
He shrugs, entirely unfazed. “When you’ve driven in some of the places I’ve driven, a Costco parking lot in Ottawa is nothing. I take it you don’t come here often?”
“Nope. As a single person living alone, I’ve never needed to shop in bulk— Oh!” I yell, pointing a couple rows over. “There’s a spot!”
“Is your seat belt on?”
I nod and we rip over, only to be beaten out by a granny in a van. It happens at least three times before we finally manage to get a spot at the farthest edge of the lot.
“Wait, did you say you’re a Costco virgin? You’ve never been, ever?” he confirms.
“My parents couldn’t afford bulk shopping. And I tend to avoid crowds,” I say, following him through the parking lot toward the entrance.
“Ahh, that’s why you shop in the middle of the night.”
“Precisely.”
He lowers his shoulders and angles his head to the door. “Shit. Well, in that case, I feel bad dragging you here. Let’s go to Peevey’s.”
“No, it’s cool. I’ll be fine,” I say, gazing at the entryway filled with massive carts.
I’ve always had anxiety about crowds, but I also know it’s good for me to get out of my comfort zone.
Besides, the drive to Costco wasn’t exactly short.
I don’t want to waste Nolan’s time, so I grab a humungous cart and push it through the entrance.
He saddles up beside me and inches me out of the way with his body, taking control of the cart. “I’ve got the cart, you’ll read the list of ingredients.”
I nod, scanning the vast expanse of aisles filled with everything from jumbo packs of toilet paper to fifty-gallon drums of olive oil.
“But first, we get ice cream,” he says. When I swing him a questioning side-eye, he adds, “It’s just a rule.”
We stop at an area that serves an impressive array of food, including pizza and massive hot dogs.
Nolan gets us two towering, perfectly crooked soft serve cones, which he insists on paying for.
“Soft serve. To dull the ache of getting your toe rammed by a gigantic cart,” he says, passing me my cone.
I thank him for the ice cream, ignoring the flutter at the base of my stomach when our fingers brush together for a millisecond. “No one rammed my toe, by the way.”
“By the end of this, someone will have. Trust me.”
Weirdly enough, navigating the crowd isn’t as terrible as I’d imagined. Maybe it’s the ice cream. Or maybe it’s just a symptom of shopping with Nolan. The crowd tends to part for him in a way they never do for me, maybe because he’s a tall man with a commanding presence.
“Is that a sample station?” I ask, nodding toward a spiky-haired lady behind a table serving little muffin holders of fresh banana bread.
He immediately swivels the cart toward it. “It is. Let’s go.”
“I thought Costco samples were the stuff of legend.”
“Nope. You could come here for a whole meal’s worth of food if you wanted to.”
The lady looks like she’d rather be literally anywhere else, but he manages to charm a smile out of her. “Can I get one for my girlfriend as well?” he asks, so naturally, I almost believe him.
“Anything for such a beautiful couple,” the lady says, revealing her dimples.
She happily hands him a second sample, which he passes to me, his lips turning up in a grin.
Not just any grin, but that boyish, infectious grin that makes my heart do a back handspring.
For a couple aisles, I let myself imagine we’re a real couple here on a Saturday afternoon.
It’s good practice for when we’re at work, I justify to myself.
We make a game of it, grabbing ingredients and beelining to every sample station. I’m basically a kid in a candy store, indulging in everything from teriyaki chicken to smoked Gouda to chocolate-covered almonds.
We weave through the crowd, zeroing in on the quiche samples.
Nolan checks in every so often to make sure I’m okay, which I am.
By the time we reach the checkout, the cart is full, and Nolan is carrying a tray of mini cheesecakes he insisted we buy (to keep up the tradition).
“So how was your very first Costco experience?”
“It’s my new favorite place,” I say, leaving out the fact that it’s only because I was with him.
· · ·
“How does it taste?” Nolan asks hours later, leaning his weight against my kitchen counter.
I stare up at him, letting the spicy cinnamon flavor melt over my tongue, attempting to mask my expression as I pass him the other half. We’re so close, there’s got to be less than an inch between our chests. And it’s not by choice. That’s how small my kitchen is.
Baking Gretchen’s cookies was a tricky affair, between trying to keep all the ingredients organized and navigating such a narrow space between the two of us.
There were multiple moments where we brushed against each other.
Like when he reached around me to grab the sugar from the cabinet behind me, his beard grazed my cheek, our chests pressed together, and I lost a couple years off my lifespan.
Maybe it was the shock, or the fatigue, or the cookies (though I don’t think anyone in history has ever been turned on by a vegan cookie), but there was a beat where we both lingered there, frozen, until he pulled away abruptly and spun around to measure out a cup of sugar.
“Um, it tastes like…vegan,” I say honestly, pulling at the fabric of my dress, which is basically glued to my chest with sweat.
It’s ridiculously hot in here, even with my AC fixed.
That’s the downside of living on the top floor of an old building.
And then there’s the fact that the oven has been on for four straight hours.
His lips twist as he finds out for himself. After one bite, he hits his own chest to force it down with a vicious cough. “That’s…grainy. Do you think we messed up the recipe? Added too much cinnamon?”
“Nope. We read it over like, five times. I think it’s supposed to taste like this…”