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I think that that might be the Mitchell Coleson version of a smile.
His eyes drop down to my basket and he jerks his chin at it. “Nice pasta.”
I wonder how many tonnes of carbs it would take to satisfy a man his size.
“Oh, thank you. I don’t know why but I only like the thick one. Spaghetti gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
I think he breathes out a laugh but I’m not one-hundred percent sure. He’s not exactly smiling, but he also doesn’t look like he’s trying to run away from me so that’s probably a pretty good sign.
“And you’re, uh” – he looks at the other items in my basket – “you’re cooking fish.”
I nod sagely, crossing and re-crossing my legs. “I know, I’m evil. I don’t usually eat meat but I’m so iron-deficient that I’m literally anaemic. Not that fish will help with that, probably, but I’m like working my way up to a steak.”
This time I do get a laugh and, bonus point, a sexy deep-cut laugh line in the tan hollow of his cheek.
Fuck me sideways. Literally.
“Do you like seafood?” I ask, before my brain can catch up with my mouth.
Then Mitch’s eyes are darkening and flashing up to mine, a heavy sensation pooling deep in my stomach.But he doesn’t make me feel like an idiot. He just rubs a hand down his mouth, eyes momentarily straying to my bare legs, and then he nods once like I just asked him a normal question. “Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah, I like seafood.”
Is it hot in here? I feel like I’m spiralling on a Codeine trip. Images of the bed in my little bungalow flash through my mind, the soft sheets crumpled luxuriously under my back, and my thighs splayed backwards, knees bent and weightless over his large undulating shoulders. The rhythmic roll of his body as he works his tongue between my legs. Stubble scraping at my belly when he looks up to check on me. The unrelenting thud of the headboard against the wall when he decides that I’ve had enough and now it’s his turn to take.
I’m so lost in my haze of lust that my body jerks a little when I snap back to the present, and the toe of my little boot accidentally nudges against his large one. He grunts, surprised, shifts his belt, and looks down at me. I take a big step backwards and quickly tuck a rain-dampened curl behind my ear.
“Sorry,” I breathe out, waving my hand airily next to my face as if to saydon’t mind me. “It must be the change in the altitude. I’m not used to being this close to the mountains.”
The heat of Mitch’s testosterone is literally rearranging my chromosomes.
“Anyway,” I say quickly, turning slightly so that I can shove the baguette back onto the shelf, “I should be heading back. I forgot my purse so I need to run back to Pine Hills. Get my cash, call a cab this time, yadda yadda yadda. The altitude, you know,” I add on, a gratified shimmer spreading in my chest when I see that almost-smile of his again.
He shakes his head in a way that I would like to describe as endearedand he releases his clutch on his belt, pulling a battered leather wallet out of his side pocket.
“How much do you need?” He thumbs through a fat wodge of bills.
I blink fast, eyes on his thick fingers, the wad of cash, that one raindrop that’s slipping pornographically slowly down the vein in his hard bicep. “Oh, no, that’s okay, really. I have to sort out my own problems. Otherwise I’ll never learn.” Advice that my mom told me repeatedly throughout my childhood. Interestingly the words were never shared with my sister.
He starts pulling out notes.One, two–
“You’re allowed a helping hand. You wanna call a cab back to the site?” His eyes meet mine and he’s being genuinely serious. In LA sometimes you’re lucky if a millionaire will split the bill with you. “Or I could… I could drive you back.”
My stomach drops, warm and heavy. I’ve seen Mitch’s truck and it’s the sexiest vehicle that I’ve ever seen. It’s so gnarly that I’m not even sure if it’s even road legal. If he let me climb into his passenger seat right now after paying for my groceries and saving me from the rain I’m not sure that we would leave the parking lot, ever. The thought of clambering over the stick-shift and straddling his lap is enough to make me squeeze my legs together.
“That’s too kind,” I rasp, no longer smiling. He’s pampering me and I don’t know how to handle it.
He pulls out four notes and pushes them into my left hand, eyes lingering there momentarily before he reaches around me to retrieve the bread that I put back a minute ago. His chest is now about three inches away from my mouth and I’m dying for him to close the gap. Instead he steps backwards and places the baguette in my basket, the thick stick somehow looking small in his hands. Then he reconsiders and grabs one to throw in his own basket too.
My cheeks are aflame. “I’ll pay you back,” I say, suddenly shy, and looking up at him from under my lashes.
He picks up his basket like it weighs nothing.
“Don’t,” he replies and he takes another step backwards.
I don’t want him to leave me. He looks begrudgingly over his shoulder and I start to think that he doesn’t want to leave me either. When he turns back around he gives me a parting lift of his chin, his jaw muscles bunched tight. “I can afford your groceries, Harper. Fill up that basket.”
I stay rooted to the spot as he walks away, both of my hands now clutching the handle of the basket, four bills crumpled in my left palm. He glances back my way before he turns the corner and a painful warmth spreads in my belly.
I whip around, my feelings all over the place, and haul ass to the check-out.
