Chapter 9 Carmen
CARMEN
Grocery shopping just got a thousand times more fun.
I throw organic produce into the shopping cart instead of regular. I can be picky with my choice of peanut butter and opt for the healthier, more expensive version, instead of the cheap stuff that has a shit load of preservatives in it.
When I make it to the baby aisle, there’s no need to shudder at the extortionate price of diapers. I can select whichever brand I want and throw it in my cart without having to second-guess if I can afford it or not.
I’m pushing the cart along the health and beauty aisle when I run into a co-worker I normally work the late shift with.
Guilty as charged—I resigned last week and only gave my manager two days notice. What are they gonna do? File a complaint? Fire me? Write me a terrible reference?
Thanks to Carter Trescott and his motorcycle club, I now get to live life on easy mode.
I now get to be one of those moms who drops their child off at school wearing a matching activewear set.
In one hand is their child, in the other is their overpriced iced matcha latte—fuel for their morning pilates class.
“What happened to you? Did you win the lottery or something?” Michael asks.
“It was the jackpot,” I say. “It’s crazy, isn’t it, how one decision can change everything?”
“You can say that again,” Michael says, scanning his eyes up and down my outfit.
I went shopping yesterday after dropping Otis off at preschool. After setting up a trust fund for him, I decided to treat myself to a shopping spree—something I didn’t know the true definition of until yesterday.
I didn’t go too crazy, but it felt nice to be able to afford mine and Sadie’s dream brown leather boots.
“Are those Isabel Marant?”
I lift my heel off the floor and give my foot a little twirl. “They certainly are.”
“You lucky bitch.”
I look at Michel’s astounded face and realize that maybe it’s just luck.
But is it just luck that I reunited with a past fling (the best one out of them all) and enjoyed it more than I should’ve? I don’t know if there’s a term to describe that.
Until I turn around, ready to push the shopping cart along the aisle, and bump into Carter Trescott.
I take that back. There is a term to describe all of this.
The term is: coincidence.
I gape at him. “What are you doing here?”
He looks me up and down like I’ve just asked him the most stupid question on earth. Or is he checking out my outfit as well?
“I’m here for the same reason most people come to a grocery store—to shop,” he says.
“At this store? I haven’t seen you here before.”
Carter’s face says it all—he’s shocked. Maybe more so than me. That means he hasn’t been stalking me.
He shrugs. “It’s probably just a coincidence.”
“Except for the fact I’ve been working here for years.”
“A big coincidence,” he says absentmindedly. He looks through me instead of at me. The weird staring continues until the intercom system bellows through the supermarket, bringing him back to reality. “I like your clothes.”
“Thanks. Why are you here?”
“I already told you. I needed to get a few things.”
I note the items under his arm—a baguette and a six pack of beer.
And then my eye catches something much more interesting. A bicep. A big one.
I stare at it for a few beats.
Carter stares with me. “Is my arm prettier than my face?”
Ugh. He fucking knows how to get under my skin in the best way possible, and I hate it. I hate his guts, his bicep, voice and his face.
But what I hate most is his eyes. Why is he looking at me like I’m a window? There’s more to me than what meets the eye, but he doesn’t get to try and read me. He doesn’t get to reappear in my life, hand over millions of dollars in exchange for sex, and drop me home the following morning.
He doesn’t get to be so fucking nice.
He’s supposed to be an asshole.
It would also be good if God made him shit in bed. If he was, I wouldn’t be undressing him with my eyes right now in the grocery store I used to work at, with Michael judging me as he listens in on this conversation.
He probably thinks I’m a gold-digger.
Which technically, I am.
“Come back to the clubhouse.” The way Carter spits it out suggests that he’s been buckling up the courage to say this for a while now.
I fold my arms over my chest. “Why?”
“Because we haven’t had the chance to speak. Properly.”
“About?”
“Everything.”
Could this be an excuse to get into my panties a third time?
Maybe.
I huff, sighing all the air out of my body like I’m doing him a favor here.
I’m not. Otis is at preschool and I don’t have any other plans for today. It’s not exactly like I’m going out of my way.
But Carter doesn’t need to know that.
“Fine.”
“Okay, great. Leave your car here, I’ll give you a ride.”
“And my groceries?”
“We can make a stop at your place.”
Why’s he so desperate to get a look at my place?
“No, it’s fine. Help me put them back. I can get them later.”
Carter gives me a weird look but assists either way.
And that was a bad idea.
“Diapers? Didn’t you say you don’t have kids?”
My heart stops beating for a moment. In a situation like this, I do what all single mothers do when they bump into their baby daddies in the grocery store: I lie.
“They’re not for me…or for my kid…because I don’t have one of those.” I clear my throat and hope that it’s gonna magically erase the nervousness from my voice. “My friend has a newborn.”
Panic over. Carter nods and grabs the diapers.
As soon as he exits the aisle, I hide my red face in my palm.
“Your friend’s kid, huh?” Michael reenters the scene. “You know the Carter Trescott? You know he was voted hottest CEO in the state of Nevada last year and two years ago?”
“Trust me, I know.”
“Since when did the two of you have a—” Michal cuts himself off. “O-M-G. He’s Otis’s father.”
“Shhh!” I press a finger to Michael’s lips and give him a cautionary stare. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“That’s big, Carmen.”
“Yeah. But is it bigger than owning your own suede Isabel Marant jacket from this season?”
Michael’s eyes are almost popping out of his skull.
I don’t like to bribe, but I also don’t want the whole grocery store knowing about my business with Carter Trescott if I can help it.
“My lips are sealed.”
“Good.”
Carter reappears and grabs a few more items from the shopping cart. Somehow, we end up finding ourselves in the same aisles. Alone.
I can pretend that I don’t feel a weird, unspoken connection between us, but pretending isn’t going to make it go away. The man’s not even touching me and I’m burning up. I’m still sore between the legs from yesterday, but the area is wet.
I’m afraid it’ll soon become obvious to everyone else, including Carter.
It’s like I’m insatiable around him. We had sex not even twenty-four hours ago, and I still don’t have my fill of him.
It’s the earthy smell of gasoline and smoke. The way his hands lightly brush over mine as we grab items from the cart to return them to the shelves. Every time he reaches over his head, his bicep flexes. Even when it’s relaxed, it looks tense.
And then there are the tattoos all over his skin. I don’t know what the markings mean. All I know is that he was not that kinda guy three years ago when we last met. He was clean, reformed and polished. His top buttons were all done up. His hair was slicked back and his stubble was trimmed.
Back then, it was still blond. Now, it’s almost completely gray.
He’s aged in the best way possible.
We finish up with the cart and exit the grocery store. His Harley is parked outside, the only vehicle in the lot that is dazzling in the sun.
I know I shouldn’t hop on and go back with him. I still don’t know this man, and I also don’t know his friends.
Otis and I have a life to start living. I should just take the money and leave.
But instead, I’m being possessed by my own burning arousal, driven to take another ride.