Three is a War(39)

As I lift the phone to snap a picture, it vanishes from my hand.

He slips it in his pocket and gives me a hard smack on the ass, making me yelp.

I glance around at men and women of every age spilling out of the aisles to watch the show.

“There’s more of that coming when I win the bet.” Trace grips the cart and strolls toward to grocery section, like he didn’t just spank me in the entrance of Walmart.

We fill the cart with produce, dairy, and whatever. He has a list—one he typed out on his phone. Who does that?

Every time I toss a package in, he stops and rearranges the basket. Evidently, there are rules for stacking shit in a cart. Something about organizing the way the groceries are bagged and put away, yadda, yadda… He lost me at organizing.

Twenty minutes into our shopping spree, it occurs to me that no one here would ever hit on him. Oh, the women are definitely looking—teen girls, mothers with screaming kids, and blue-haired grannies. They stumble and stare, necks craning and mouths gaping, like they can’t come to terms with the sight of a gorgeous Viking god pushing a cart down the cereal aisle.

I get it. He stands out in such a shocking way I find myself gawking right along with them.

But they don’t approach, not even when I trail at a distance and pretend we’re not together. I should’ve known. As recklessly impulsive as I am, I’m not sure I’d have the balls to initiate a conversation with such an intimidatingly beautiful man.

The bet is a total bust. So I wander off to check out the music section while he heads toward the auto department to get lawn mower oil.

I don’t make it two steps down the pop music aisle before a passing employee stops in his tracks and flashes me a toothy smile.

Don’t come this way. Don’t come this way.

He prowls straight toward me, eyes fixed on mine. Ugh.

I turn on my heel and hurry down the aisle. But he catches me in the next row over.

Short black hair, lean build, he’s probably early-twenties. Too young to grow a beard or comprehend the danger lurking nearby in the form of a possessive, scowly male.

“Do you need help finding something?” His gaze makes an audacious journey over my body. “I’m at your service.”

“Nope. All good here. Thanks.” I pivot away.

He sidles around me and strokes a thumb across his bottom lip, grinning. “You’re so fine I had to come over and tell you. You must be new in town.”

“Yeah, so I’m going to sit this one out.” I duck around him.

He chases. “What’s your name?”

“Not interested.”

“Give me a chance.” He races past me and steps into my path. “Let’s go out tonight.”

“Let’s not and stick with that story.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be like that.”

Blatant verbal disinterest apparently doesn’t work with this guy.

“I have a confession.” I arrange my face into pained embarrassment. “I have a raging yeast infection going on. With all the itchiness and discharge, I just can’t tonight.”

“Tomorrow night then.” He searches my eyes, not a flinch in his expression. “Seven o’clock. Where should I pick you up?”

I got to hand it to him. He’s smart enough to see through the lie and persistent to boot.

“Look, you seem like a nice guy…” I glance at his Walmart name tag. “Max. I’m sure you’ll go far in life”—and I really hope he stays there—”so you should probably run along and get going on that.”

I’m really not judging him for working at Walmart. At least he has a job. Can’t say the same for myself.

But he’s earning major creeper points every second he stands here, eying me up and down.

His perusal freezes on something over my shoulder. Given his backward shuffle and paling complexion, it doesn’t take a brainiac to know Trace is standing behind me.

“I’ll…uh…” Max continues his retreat out of the aisle. “Catch you next time.”

I wait until he vanishes around the corner before turning toward Trace.

My breath hitches. Damn, he looks murderous. Sharp blade-like eyes, deep-set scowl, shoulders back, and hands behind him, he stands a few feet away, glaring like a giant with a gym-honed physique. It’s no wonder he’s so confident. His towering stature allows him to stare down anyone who crosses his path. Including me.

“Stop scowling at me.” I breeze past him. “I had that under control.”

“Sounds like we should swing by the medicine aisle.” With long-legged strides, he easily catches up. “Pick up something for your itchy problem.”

“How on earth did you hear that?” I reach the cart, where he left it sitting in the main walkway, and lean on the handle. “Were you eavesdropping one aisle over? Or did you bug me?”