Chapter Two

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound of my groceries scanning is the only noise I hear as I examine a poster pinned to the wall in front of me.

Do you want to win an exotic holiday for two?

I do, but I never win anything, not even a simple bingo game or raffle drawing, so there’s no point in entering. But that doesn’t stop my mind from drifting off into a daydream that has soft sand parting under my feet in a place where I’m completely relaxed, shaking my booty as I dance along the shore, free from all the worries of life. A canary yellow cocktail fills a tall glass wrapped securely in my hand. I throw my head back and smell the salty sea air. The breeze, so refreshing. The beach, alight with warm sunrays. The water, complete with crystal patterns, which sparkle like diamonds.

I need a holiday. I need a holiday with the man I’ve just stalked for nine aisles.

That guy was everywhere I was until I raced to the checkouts to escape from the perv mode I found myself permanently homed in. I checked him out in the same way I took to the freaking cake on entry. I had no shame. I had no morals. I stared and gawked. I devoured him in my mind. Oh, boy was he hot. But a man like him would never think twice about a woman like me. He’s Hercules, and I’m Plain Jane.

The story of my life: Wanting things which are well and truly out of my league.

Biting down on my lip, I replay every step this mystery man took. The way the black tribal tattoo danced on his tight perfectly sculpted calf. His arse … I want to bounce a quarter off his arse. He was indeed an image of beauty, and now I’ll have no choice but to bank his muscular frame into my memory and bring forth these images on cold and lonely nights when I wish for the company of a man’s touch.

“Miss, do you want me to bag this toilet paper up for you? Or are you happy to take it as is?”

Toilet paper? I didn’t buy any toilet paper. “Pardon, what did you say?”

She waves the pack of forty-eight rolls in the air as if she’s auctioning it off to the highest bidder.

My face instantly heats. “I don’t need that,” I rush in saying.

“O-kay then.”

She’s young, so young, in fact, I think her mum still buys her toilet paper supply. Her glossed lips stretch wide as I find myself scowling in her direction. Her heavily blushed cheeks expose the most perfectly formed bone structure I’ve ever seen, and in a moment of pure jealousness, I decide I dislike her youthful appearance.

Where did my time go?

Where did my life go?

Did I miss the bus that rolls down the gloomy street of Single Town, the one transporting you to Happily-Ever-After Couple Land?

I wasted my youth in medical school with constant study. I forgot to stop, smell the roses, be young, and party. I hid away in libraries, lecture theatres, and study halls.

In three weeks, I’ll be thirty. Thirty! And I’m still single.

There’s a clearing of a throat followed by laughter, deep, from-the-stomach laughter. I twist my neck in his direction. Oh, good Lord. It’s him. He’s at checkout seven, right next to eight where I’ve loaded all my stuff onto the conveyor belt mindlessly.

“Hi.” A twinge of humour lines his voice.

“Hi,” I say, looking away as fast as I would when faced with a blood-covered mask worn on Halloween. Those things scare the crap out of me. His straight sparkling white teeth scare me just the same.

More laughter.

What’s so goddamn funny?

I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other. I brush my hand over my bottom, worried maybe my dress has caught in my knickers and I have an arse cheek poking out for the world to see. Swiftly, I relocate that same hand to my nose once I realise my derrière is protected and wipe at my nostrils hoping there’s no boogers hanging out. I’m self-conscious as I sense his eyes violating the side of my head.

“Big weekend planned, hey?” I can hear the amusement in his tone.

“Pardon?” It’s a croak of the word. Did my voice crack? When did I become a pubescent boy?

I glimpse in his direction and notice he’s pointing at my checkout. I shift my eyes, following his elongated finger, and gasp. Not a small-sounding gasp. Not a medium level of noise either. But a noisy suck of air producing a choke-like sound.

What in the ever-loving fuck?

“Um. They’re not mine,” I spew out, racing to the moving conveyor belt, fumbling with the boxes—trying to make them disappear—and holding two against my chest. I’ve no frickin’ idea how these boxes of condoms got there in the first place.

He laughs once more.

My palms are sweaty. My heart races as my mind forms visions of a pyramid designed out of inflated condoms. I think I’m having a stroke from the sudden rise in my blood pressure.

The man closes the gap between us. His breath rushes past my ear and down my neck. I immediately stand frozen in response. He’s close to me. Too close.

“Wow. You have been busy while grocery shopping, haven’t you?” There’s no mistaking his humour.

I can’t formulate a word or thought. I flick my eyes left, then right, up, then down. Flashes of products, ones I’ve never purchased in my life are waiting to be scanned by the pretty attendant.

I’m dreaming. I’m asleep. Wake up. WAKE UP! I scream internally.

“Men’s deodorant. Lubricant. What’s that? Seven, eight, nine boxes of frangers, and you have a lot of toilet paper. You must live in a share house like me by the looks of your items. Come to think of it, your shopping looks identical to mine. Funny, isn’t it?”

Oh shit! Was I so focused on checking this man out as I shopped that I mimicked his movements and selected the same products he did?

“You should be mindful when shopping, you know. Concentration is an important part of selecting your essentials.”

I did. I bought the things he did, and now I look like a total sex-obsessed weirdo who might be prone to a case of the runs. I want to die. Please God, strike me down with a bolt of electricity to the head. I could do with the experience of a heart attack right about now.

“These are for my boyfriend.” It flies out of my mouth. I lie. I lie with an unconvincing rattle enlaced with my mousey tone.

“He’s a stallion, that boyfriend of yours then?”

“Um—”

“You’re a lucky woman.” His hand brushes my arm. “Or he’s a lucky man.”

I can’t breathe. The two boxes of condoms I managed to grab and hold against my chest drop to the ground when my arms go limp.

“It was fun shopping with you. We should do it again sometime. Anyway, have a good night.” He steps back and away from me. The suffocation stifling me dissipates.

I clutch the handle of my handbag still resting in the seat of my shopping cart with embarrassment spreading through my veins like wildfire. I scoop up the cake, and I walk. I keep walking. I don’t look back.

“Miss! Hey, miss, you didn’t pay. You didn’t pay for the cake,” the sweet young voice of the attendant calls after me.

I don’t stop walking. I can’t glance back.

I’m keeping this damn cake.