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Hands in my pockets, I strolled over, immediately catching all three women’s attention.
“Hey, Bennett,” crooned the woman I recognized.
“Hi, Brenda. Getting some late-night shopping done?”
Betty blinked in surprise, her expression now a little sheepish, though she still remained in place three feet away from the other ladies.
“I just love your new store. I was just telling Michelle howamazingit is tofinallyhave some quality fresh produce in town and the kinds of organic groceries I need to keep fit.”
She gave me a seductive smile and splayed a hand on her hip, her fingers spreading wide, red nails contrasting on her white yoga pants. Yes. White.
“Thank you. Glad to hear it.”
“So impressive for such a young man.” She spread those red-nailed fingers on my bicep and gave me afriendlysqueeze before letting go.
I wasn’t shocked that she was blatantly flirting with me. She always did whenever I was forced to speak to her in social gatherings.
Betty rolled her eyes and wandered slowly away.
“Thanks again. Take care.” I nodded to them both politely then quickly veered around them to catch Betty.
She’d stopped in front of the gourmet cheese section.
“Can I help you find a good cheese or charcuterie platter?” I asked in all seriousness.
“I was going to make my own, but the selection is shockingly stark.”
I took in the array of Gouda, Brie, Camembert, Roquefort, Gruyere, white and yellow cheddar, gorgonzola, mozzarella, and so on. Not to mention variations of smoked, garlic-n-herb, habanero, cilantro, blueberry, cranberry, and even maple Bourbon-flavored cheeses.
When I blinked back at her, there was the tiniest curve to her mouth that jarred my senses before I could reply.
“You’re right,” I agreed before clearing my throat. “I’ll take it up with the owner. I hear he’s a total tool.”
That got a real smile out of her. “He’s not that bad. I was wondering if I was going to have to save you from the MILFs.”
She glanced over at the bakery, as did I, but Brenda and her friend Michelle were gone.
“Does that happen a lot?” she asked.
I shrugged, not really wanting to answer that question. “Her husband plays golf with my dad.”
She snorted. “You did not just say that.Her husband plays golf with my dad,” she imitated me with a deep voice, sounding so adorable I wanted to grab her and kiss the hell out of her.
Who was I kidding? I had the overwhelming need to kiss her no matter what she was doing. Even making fun of me. “Did that just put me firmly in the too-bougie-for-Betty category?”
She laughed, the sound loosening a tightness in my chest. Rather than answer, she picked up a pack of smoked Gouda, plopped it in her basket, and walked on. Hands in my pockets, I helplessly followed like a dog hoping for scraps of attention.
“No.”
“So, why were you really so pissed about the MILFs?”
She raised her eyebrows at me.
“That’s what you called them, not me,” I argued, noticing a dozen glazed donuts and another dozen croissants in her basket. “You don’t approve of the gluten-free, organic, Keto, kale lifestyle or something?”
“I don’t care what kind of diet people are on. You can live on a cantaloupe juice diet for all I care. But don’t carry on and on, complaining about how so many people eat red meat, destroying their bodies with high cholesterol.” She waved a baguette at me before throwing it in her basket. “I mean, some people can’t even afford to buy red meat.”
There was a thread of true anger underlying her irritation.
