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Chapter four
What You Won't Find in the Produce Section
Alfie
Georgie’s just finished locking up the trailer when I arrive to pick her up. After our first date ended with a bloody nose, she promised to make it up to me with a home-cooked meal. Listen, I’m not afraid of a little blood, but I wasn’t going to turn her down on the offer of a second date.
So, I told my blue balls to quit whining and turn these lemons into one sexy ass glass of lemonade with an adorable British accent.
She hasn’t noticed me yet, so I watch her from my spot on the curb outside the bookstore. She looks like Mickey Mouse’s wet dream in a red-and-white polka-dot sundress and her golden hair split into two braids.
I don’t miss the small look of surprise on her face when she realizes the BMW worth a quarter-mill is mine. She waves, and I feel like a proud peacock having impressed the pretty lady peacock—peapussy?
I get out and open the passenger door for her. “M’lady.” I offer my hand even though it’s a low sedan. Any excuse to get to touch her.
She climbs in, and I scurry around to my seat. As I get in, she asks, “I don’t think I asked you what you do for work?”
I keep it simple with a safe answer. Gangster isn’t usually a profession that people get excited to take home to mom. “I work in personal security.”
“Like a bodyguard?”
“Yeah, pretty much. Now, tell me where we’re headed.” With my eyes still on the road, I place my hand on her thigh and watch her smile in my periphery.
God, I could live every moment trying to make her smile.
“I have to pick up a few ingredients first, if that’s okay?”
“If that’s okay? Baby, anywhere is okay if I get to be with you.”
She scoffs playfully. “Oh, Alfie, quite the charmer, aren’t you?”
I give her a quick wink. “Quite. Be careful, I might just charm the pants off ya.”
She laughs with a shake of her head. “Turn here.”
She’s been standing in front of the cucumbers for more than a minute, picking one up at a time and considering it closely, with a few glances toward me, then putting it back with a puzzled expression.
Honestly, I’m equally puzzled by what is happening here. “You take your cucumbers seriously, huh?”
She looks at me, surprised, like she’s shocked I’m standing next to her. Immediately, her cheeks turn pink and her eyes fly to her feet. She plays with the ends of one of her braids and sheepishly looks back at me.
“Promise you won’t laugh?”
I hold up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Okay, well, to tell you the truth, I was a little intimidated by what I felt last night.”
I literally clutch my chest. I was not expecting such words, and damn does it take my heart by surprise.
I grab her hands, current cucumber and all, and look her deeply in the eyes. “I felt the same thing. But what does that have to do with cucumbers?”
“Oh—I mean—uh—I was talking about not-so-little, little Alfie.”
“Right.” I force a laugh through my dry throat. “So was I.” No, I wasn’t. “But I still don’t get what that has to do with cucumbers—oh . . .” I realize with a slow nod.
She blushes even harder, and I squeeze her hands before letting them go with a smirk. “Well, you won’t find a reference in the cucumber section, I’ll tell you that much.”
Her jaw drops. Once she collects herself, she warily ventures toward the section with eggplant. Quirking a brow, she holds one of the purple vegetables in question.
