I look away, focusing on the smaller boxes I can actually manage.
He notices.
"Eyes up, Turner," he murmurs, amused. "Or I'm going to drop all this shit and take you on East's office couch."
I duck my chin into the box I'm carrying. "You are impossible."
"You married impossible. That's on you."
I grab the box labeled ASSORTED and follow him into the sun.
We load the boxes into the back room off the clubhouse kitchen. I sign the inventory sheet with a practiced flick, printing my married name.
Sloane Turner.
It still looks like I'm forging someone else's signature.
"Lunch is at one," Knox says, checking his phone. "Family's texting Maggie asking what she's making."
"Let me guess. Fried chicken. Mashed potatoes. Enough carbs to kill an elephant."
He grins. "You love her potatoes."
"I do." I pause. "My arteries don't."
"Your arteries can take a hit once in a while." He glances at me, gaze sweeping down. "You wearing that skirt today?"
I glance down. The leopard-print skirt hits mid-thigh with a black tank, and my hair half up, half down. Frankie practically forced the outfit into my arms last week, declaring it a "hot wife" look.
"Is there a problem with my skirt?"
The green goes dark. "Nothing about that skirt is a problem." He steps in, tracing the hem, barely brushing the top of my thigh. "Just trying to mentally prepare for having to sit across from you at a picnic table while the entire club watches me try not to pitch a tent."
I snort. "You do realize no one would be surprised by that."
"Still. I like to at least pretend to be civilized around Maggie's potato salad."
A laugh bubbles up that I don't manage to swallow. He smiles when he hears it, and it’s softer around the edges.
My phone buzzes. Hospital group text, shift swap offers. I thumb it away since I'm off for the next two days.
"Come on," Knox says, catching the edge of my tank top and steering me outside. "One more stop before we go home."
"What's the stop?"
He jerks his chin toward the corner pharmacy. "Maggie texted. She's out of half the shit she swears she's stocked. She sent a list. We're on errand duty."
"Domestic," I say, mock-horrified. "We're married and running errands. How did this happen to us?"
He slides his hand into mine without asking, fingers strong and sure. "You climbed on the back of my bike and never got off. That's how."
Inside the pharmacy, we weave down aisles that smell like shampoo, bubblegum, and rubbing alcohol. I grab antisepticcream, bandages, and a restock of the cheap readers Maggie keeps losing.
Knox tosses chocolate into the basket.
"That's not on the list," I say.
"It's for you."