Chapter Three
Unwelcome Suprises
Scarlett
The moment I step into the grocery store, I take a deep breath, inhaling the familiar scent of fresh produce, stale air conditioning, and a bakery section aggressively pushing day-old muffins.
It’s comforting, in a strange way. I’ve barely been here a day, but this already feels better.
The lake breeze, the quiet, the absolute lack of people needing anything from me.
Glorious.
This summer is going to be exactly what I need. Just me, my laptop, a scenic view, and a desperate attempt to salvage my career before my editor sends a hitman to my house.
I grab a shopping cart and mentally run through my shopping list: coffee, fruit, snacks, and enough wine to drown my writer’s block. Easy meals, because cooking is not my spiritual gift.
I head straight for the coffee aisle first. Because, priorities.
As I reach for a bag of dark roast, another hand moves at the exact same time, bumping against mine.
“Seriously?” I mutter, stepping back.
“Gotta say, wasn’t expecting competition for coffee selection in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon,” comes a deep, amused voice.
I turn, prepared to give my best I’m just here for caffeine, not conversation glare, and—okay. Wow.
The guy standing beside me is built like a linebacker, over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, messy dark hair, and an infuriating smirk that tells me he enjoys being irritating.
He’s got that whole I could chop wood shirtless in a cologne commercial vibe going for him, and I already hate that I noticed.
“Not competition,” I say flatly, grabbing the coffee and tossing it into my basket. “Just someone trying to get in and out of this store as quickly as possible.”
He arches a brow. “Not much for small talk, huh?”
I blink. “Are you the designated grocery store greeter? Because if so, I’d like to speak to management.”
The smirk widens, like he’s enjoying this. Great. I’ve somehow stumbled across the one extrovert in this entire town.
“Sorry, sweetheart, no management here,” he says, reaching for his own bag of coffee.
I ignore the sweetheart because, frankly, I don’t have the time or the energy. I push my cart ahead and move to the next aisle—snacks. If I’m going to have any chance of survival this summer, I need fuel. Preferably in the form of carbs and salt.
Unfortunately, he seems to have the exact same shopping strategy.
“Following me now?” I ask, eyeing him as he grabs a bag of kettle chips from the same shelf I’m reaching for.
He laughs, leaning casually against his cart like he has all the time in the world. “Yeah, definitely tailing you for snack recommendations. What’s next? Popcorn? Frozen pizzas?”
I narrow my eyes. “You are so unoriginal. You can’t just repeat everything I pick.”
“Can and will.” He tosses a bag of pretzels into his cart with zero shame. “You seem like you know what you’re doing.”
I push ahead, stopping in front of a display and frown. “No oat milk,” I mutter.
“I didn’t know oats could make milk,” Mr. Mind-Your-Own-Business says, coming up from behind me.
“Wow. Amazing flirting strategy.” I move past him, fully ready to leave whoever this guy is in my rearview mirror.
“You think I’m flirting?” He follows me again, clearly having way too much fun with this. “And here I thought we were just having a friendly chat.”
I stop in my tracks, turning slowly. “I’m sorry, do I have a sign on my back that says ‘I love small talk’?”
He grins, like he’s been waiting for this moment, but rather than answer, he just chuckles.
For some reason, I keep talking. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at me, like he’s surprised by my lack of interest. “I don’t mean to be rude; I just came here for the summer to escape people.”
At this, his eyebrows shoot up. “That might be difficult in a beachside tourist town.” Then he extends a hand, as if this is some kind of charming introduction. “Chase.”
I don’t take it. Don’t smile. “Scarlett.”
His grin deepens, like he’s pleased to finally have my name. “Scarlett. Huh. Nice to meet you. Maybe I’ll see you around this summer.”
I certainly hope not.
I let out a long, slow breath. This is fine. I am a mature, rational adult. I can handle an overly friendly fellow grocery store patron.
I spin on my heel and head for the frozen aisle, but apparently, we both need ice cream.
And there’s only one carton of my favorite flavor left.
I reach for it at the exact same moment he does.
“Oh, come on,” I exhale, exasperated.
He grins, fingers gripping the other side of the carton. “You again.”
“You again.” I tug the container toward me.
He tugs it back.
We stare each other down like two cowboys in an old Western standoff, a single pint of chocolate peanut butter swirl between us.
“Be reasonable,” I say. “I had it first.”
“Nope. I touched it first.”
“That is a lie.”
He smirks. “Fine. You want to settle this like adults?”
I cross my arms. “I am not arm wrestling you in the middle of the frozen food aisle.”
“Scared you’ll lose?”
“Scared I’ll break your fragile ego.”
He lets out a low laugh, then—the audacity—grabs a second carton of some other flavor and holds it out to me. “Tell you what. You take this, and I take this one. A compromise.”
I scowl at the offensive carton in his hand. “That’s mint chocolate chip.”
“And?”
I look at him like he’s personally insulted my entire family. “It tastes like frozen toothpaste.”
“Well, now you’re just being dramatic.”
I yank the chocolate peanut butter swirl out of his hands and shove the mint back in the freezer. “Find another coping mechanism. This is mine.”
I march toward the registers before he can argue.
Only to realize he has reached the checkout first.
With the last jar of peanut butter sitting smugly in his cart.
You have got to be kidding me.
I narrow my eyes at the cashier, a teenage girl who looks half-asleep but also looks like she might be susceptible to a small bribe.
I pull out a five-dollar bill and slide it across the counter. “You see that jar of peanut butter? If another shipment comes in, set one aside for me. Every week.”
She perks up slightly, pocketing the cash. “Sure.”
But then—
“Hey, Ashlyn,” Chase says smoothly, leaning against the counter like he’s the star of some rom-com meet-cute. “Got a question for you.”
The cashier, Ashlyn, giggles. Actually giggles.
My stomach sinks.
“You wouldn’t happen to have any more oat milk in the back, would you?” he asks, flashing a dimple.
Ashlyn perks up at Chase’s question. “Actually, Mrs. Carter had one in her cart, but I think she left without buying it.”
My stomach unclenches slightly. Okay, so there’s still one left. Good. I’ll just—
Chase turns toward the sweet old woman bagging her groceries nearby, flashes the kind of grin that probably got him out of detention as a kid, and says, “Mrs. Carter, right? You wouldn’t happen to still have that oat milk, would you?”
She blinks up at him, then smiles, absolutely charmed. “Oh, yes, dear. Did you need it?”
“Wouldn’t say need,” he replies, voice smooth as butter. “But I sure would appreciate it. Haven’t been able to find the stuff anywhere.”
“Oh, in that case, take it,” she says, handing it over with zero hesitation. “I was just going to try it, but I don’t really need it.”
Chase takes the oat milk with a freaking wink. “You’re the best.”
I gape as he drops it smugly into his cart, then looks at me like he just won an Olympic event.
I point an accusatory finger. “You scammed an old lady.”
“She offered it to me,” he says with a shrug.
Ashlyn, the traitor, giggles behind the register.
As soon as I’ve paid, I exhale sharply, grab my bags, and march toward the exit.
I will not let some overly confident, annoyingly attractive guy disrupt my peaceful summer.
This is my sanctuary. My escape.
And I am not here for distractions.
Even if they come with stupidly pretty blue eyes and a dimple that should honestly be illegal.