Choosing Henley(32)

“Your house is beautiful.” I don’t even trying to hide the awe in my voice. “It suits you,” I tell him, and it does. The house is warm with all of its wood accents, and the modern kitchen doesn’t surprise me with his love of cooking.

“You’ve been here before,” he answers, putting the beer in the fridge.

“I know. I guess I didn’t really see it last time,” I respond shyly, ducking my head so he won’t see the blush forming on my cheeks.

He chuckles softly but doesn’t tease me about it. Which is probably a good thing because I’m already extremely on edge being back in his home.

“So what are we doing today?” I ask him.

“I was thinking we could cook dinner together.” He beams at me.

“All right,” I say, looking around his massive, decked-out kitchen. “But I’m warning you. I’m not a good cook.”

“That’s okay, babe. I am.” He picks up the keys to his Jeep from their spot on the counter. I must look confused because he answers the question I haven’t asked yet. “I didn’t know what you’d want to make, so we have to go to the store.” When I don’t answer him right away, he starts to speak again, looking nervous. “If you don’t want to come, you’re more than welcome to stay here with Martha until I get back,” he offers.

I shake my head. “No. No. I’ll come.” I smile back at him reassuringly. I don’t think I’d be able to contain myself from snooping if he left me here alone for an hour. Oh please. If any of you girls are shaking your head right now saying that you wouldn’t do it, you’re full of shit, because you absolutely would.

Twenty minutes later, we are making our way inside the grocery store. It’s pretty quiet for a Monday afternoon. Most people went back to work today. And this is when a thought crosses my mind.

“Don’t you have to work today?” I ask him.

“I have a few orders, but nothing that’s pressing. I’d rather spend the day with you,” he says, picking up a shopping basket.

“Oh,” is all I manage to say in response.

“You only really eat chicken and fish right?”

“Right.” I smile back at him. “How did you know that?”

“I’ve known you a long time now, Beatle. I’ve been paying attention.” He winks, slipping his free hand into mine as we walk through the store.

“What are we making?” I ask as we turn into the fresh vegetables section.

Instead of letting go of my hand to reach for the items, he puts the basket down, freeing up his other hand. “Do you like carrots?”

When I nod in response, he picks up a bundle of large carrots and sets them down into our basket.

We repeat this process, going through the rest of the store. He asks me questions and I rattle off yes or no answers. It’s fun to watch him get excited while picking out the different foods. I’m more of a dial-for-your-food kind of girl, so this is a new experience for me.

Jami’s agonizing over which can of sun-dried tomatoes we should use when I hear a familiar whiny voice come from the other side of Jami.

“Jamison!” Barbie squeals, running at him and plastering her fake tits against his chest.

“Kelsey,” Jami answers, pushing her away with his free hand, the other still tightly clasping mine.

She does that childish pout, and I immediately wonder if she’s had lip injections because no one’s lips could naturally be like that. Not unless you’re Angelina Jolie or something anyway.

“I’ve missed you, bae,” she coos, dragging her cat-claw nails down the front of his arm. Bae? Seriously? Who the fuck even says that? I’m pretty sure it’s, like, the Danish word for poop. Gross. “I’ve been calling you,” she whines.

I feel my back stiffen. I’ve spent so much time with him the last week, and I didn’t notice that she was calling. Have they been talking?

“Now’s not a good time,” Jami says coldly.

It feels like déjà vu, the three of us having some kind of weird standoff in the middle of the frickin’ grocery store. She tears her wide-eyed gaze off Jami and narrows it at me. Uh oh. Malibu Barbie just realized that I’m here too. Jami moves so he’s standing more in front of me now, and that only seems to piss Barbie off even more.

“What is she doing here?” Kelsey seethes, pointing a fake-tan finger at me.

Something about this bitch seriously has me wanting to pull out all that nasty bleach-blond hair of hers. I hate her.

“She’s here with me,” he replies shortly.

Rage flares behind her contacts, and I attempt to pull my hand from Jami’s. This feels way too much like last time. He won’t let me move my hand, only squeezing it tighter.