Me:
Is it something I can help you with?
Sutton:
You’re probably the only person who can help
Flutters unleashin my stomach as I read his words, a cascade of emotions rippling through me at his simple reply.
Me:
I think I need you to spell it out, Sunny
Sutton:
I’d rather show you
I squeezemy thighs together in the front seat of my parked car, thankful for the sunglasses shielding my eyes. I’m pretty sure I just had a mini orgasm in the parking lot of the local grocery store. I can’t be certain where Sutton’s texts are leading, but I have a feeling. Our kiss at the county fair blurred the line between us, and from the sounds of these texts, it seems like Sutton might be interested in crossing that boundary again.
I certainly am. I can’t deny that I’ve teased myself to thoughts of Sutton since I’ve been living under his roof. What woman wouldn’t? The man isfinewith a capital F. His muscles alone could land him on a magazine cover, and that salt in his hair only adds to the appeal. Now that he’s shown me how well he can kiss, I can’t help but wonder what else he can do.
Me:
All you have to do is ask
I sendthe text and get out of my car. If I keep flirting, I’ll never get the grocery shopping done, and I told Whitney I’d be back in an hour. Tucking my phone into my purse, I pull out my list and make my way to the cool interior of the store.
I make quick work of the shopping. I put together the list with a few special meals in mind. I wanted to teach Nellie to cook more dishes since she loved making the fried rice and spaghetti so much. I decided to try our hand at taco fries, which is essentially nacho toppings over crispy baked fries. It’s not gourmet by any means, but there are a lot of ingredients she canhelp me prep, and I can safely supervise her using a knife and cutting board.
The sun nearly blinds me as I step outside about forty minutes later. I untangle my sunglasses from the crown of my head, pulling them over my sensitive eyes. I push the shopping cart in the direction of my car while blinking dark spots from my vision.
“I need to talk to you, Ms. Thompson,” a voice calls out, urgent and unfamiliar.
A man appears from my left, his hands clamping down tightly on the edge of my shopping cart. He quickly circles to the front and blocks my path.
I recognize him immediately—Jake Lanighan, the man behind the podcast I’ve been trying so hard to avoid.
Fear raises the hairs on my arms as goose bumps ripple across my skin. I swallow hard. I could turn back, but there’s a real risk he’ll tackle me before I reach the door. If I continue forward, my pepper spray is in my car. I just have to get there first.
“Leave me alone,” I demand, shoving the cart forward to gain an extra foot of space. My eyes scan the parking lot, searching for a bystander who might help.
He slams his body in front of my cart again, blocking me. “You don’t understand. I’ve been trying to find you.”
Alarm bells ring in my head.
“I know,” I hiss. “You broke into my fucking house.”
He looks terrible. His black hair has grown longer since I first saw him outside that coffee shop a couple of months ago. The strands are slick and matted, sticking to his forehead. Dark circles ring the space beneath his eyes. The tee shirt he wears hangs awkwardly off his body, misshapen and ill-fitting. Either he hasn’t slept or he’s strung out on something. Everything about this guy screams danger.
“You wouldn’t talk to me. You aren’t answering my calls,” he says, his voice agitated.
“Because I am not interested! Leave me alone.”
This time, when I shove, he steps out of the way. I reach my car, but he keeps pace beside me, the cart between us providing nearly two feet of distance. I stick my hand in my purse for my keys, but before I can reach them, he lunges.
“Don’t,” he grits, pinning me against the car with the weight of my cart against my torso. “Just listen to me.”
“Let me go,” I yell, hoping to draw attention from the vacant lot.