And don’t let him see you.
I’ve had enough of him.
I freeze, step back behind the stack of canned beans. Not hiding. Just…observing.
I watch as Taron picks up the last bunch of bananas—ripe, yellow, perfect—and drops them in his basket. My jaw tightens. Those weremine. Or would’ve been.
But fine. Whatever. It’s nothing to lose my cool over.
He moves on to apples, picking through them carefully. Selects a few shiny reds, turns them over like he’s inspecting for flaws.
Then… wait.
He slips them into his backpack. Not the basket.
What the hell?
My gut twists.Shoplifting? In Peplinska’s? No way. Taron doesn’t seem the type. City boy, yeah, but not a thief.
I pause, hold my ground. I want to give Taron the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it’s a mistake. Forgot he had the bag open. Did it without thinking.
I watch, breath held.
“Come on, boy,” I whisper. “Do the right thing. Don’t do this…”
He zips the backpack halfway, slings it back on, and heads to the counter with his basket. Pays for the bananas, some yogurt, a loaf of bread. I watch, shocked, as Taron chats with Mrs. Peplinska about the rain, laughs at something.
Then he simply walks out. Apples unpaid for.
“Son of a…”
Irritation flares into something hotter. Mistake or not, that’s stealing. From good people. Thebestpeople I know in fact.
I can’t let it slide.
Not as a man, a resident of this fine town, or as a Daddy either.
I set my basket down—the groceries can wait—and follow him out. The rain’s eased to a drizzle, but the sidewalks are slick. He’s walking fast, head down, toward the B&B maybe.
“Taron,” I bark.
He stops, turns. Eyes widen when he sees me. “Kaleb? Hey. What are you?—”
“Store,” I say, voice low but firm. “You forgot something.”
His brow furrows. “What? I don’t get it.”
“Apples,” I growl. “The ones in your backpack. The ones you didn’t pay for…”
Color drains from his face, then floods back red. He swings the bag off, unzips it. He pulls out the apples, staring like they betrayed him.
“Oh God. I—I must’ve… I didn’t mean…Shit.”
“Language,” I snap, surprising myself. Where’d that come from? It’s not like I don’t curse myself. But somehow hearing Taron say it is something else.
The boy blinks. “Sorry,” he says. “But it was an accident. I was thinking about my book, and I just… spaced.”
“Accident or not, you walked out with ‘em.” I cross my arms. “Go back. Pay. And apologize and tell Mrs. Peplinska what happened.”