Kat

Setting a large roast in the cart, I turn to its pilot, Rosie, who’s discreetly scanning our surroundings as if she expects Michael Myers to attack in the next aisle. If she wasn’t so focused on her job, she might actually participate in the shopping trip. When I suggested we pick up groceries for the week, she seemed fine with it. First, she insisted on driving because you can never be too careful. I obliged, since I know that’s what Dad would expect. Second, as a precaution, she drove around the small market twice to be certain we weren’t tailed. Third, before I was given the okay to exit the Suburban, she did a simple sweep of the parking lot. Forth, once inside, she subtly profiled everyone as if they’re criminals who may need apprehended. Even the eighty-year-old lady who picked peaches beside me had Rosie’s attention. I appreciate she takes her job seriously. I guess I just never considered what having a bodyguard would entail. She’s stoic, aloof, yet her eyes are continually evaluating. Most people wouldn’t pick up on her quick once-overs. But, I do. My father always taught me to be alert. To pay attention to details. Rosie’s a true professional by blending in seamlessly, when, in reality, she could kill everyone in here in under sixty seconds flat. Big couldn’t have picked a more competent bodyguard.

“Is there anything you might want to get while we're here?” I prompt for the umpteenth time. Either she doesn’t eat or doesn’t care what she feeds that tiny body.

“No. I’m good.” Her attention’s focused elsewhere. Too busy studying the messy haired teenager in the frozen food section out of the corner of her eye. He smiles warmly our way, and I raise a hand in hello. Returning the gesture, he drops a pot pie into his basket. Rosie frowns.

“You should wave to him. It’s polite,” I suggest because my gut says she doesn’t grasp social cues all that well. And domestic duties, such as shopping, definitely knock her off-kilter. Rosie ignores my suggestion as predicted.

Oh well. I tried.

Up next is the chicken. Picking through multiple packages of breasts, I settle on the heaviest family pack. “Do you like chicken?” I ask, carefully adding the package to our half-full cart.

“Sure.”

Rosie runs a palm absentmindedly across the shorn side of her skull. Yes, I said shorn. Rosie’s the epitome of a punk rock chick. Between her black, black, and … more black wardrobe, to her natural blonde hair, cut angularly at her jaw on one side while the opposite’s clipped short. Amazingly enough, it’s sexy on her. She has the face and bone structure to pull it off. No wonder Kade’s besotted. She’s gorgeous, petite, confident, and lethal. Granted, her social skills could use a tune-up.

Leading us down the next aisle, I stop at the cookies, determined to get her to pick one item for herself. It’s the least I can do. “Do you like cookies?” I hold out a package of Oreos in one hand and vanilla wafers in the other.

“Sure.” Rosie shrugs her left shoulder dismissively.

I sigh inwardly. That’s not good enough.

“Can you please tell me why you’re being so difficult? You’re staying with us. I want you to have food in the house you like. If you won’t tell me, I can’t buy the right stuff.”

Eyeing the cracker section in avoidance, she groans lowly. “Look. I’ll eat anything. I’m not picky. When I spend most of my time going from motel to motel, fast food, bad diners, and frozen dinners are pretty much all I eat. So when I say I don’t want anything, I don’t. Whatever’s provided is fine with me. I’m not your guest to dote upon. I’m here to do a job. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

That’s sad. I don’t want this job to be like the rest. Rosie deserves home cooked meals and common decency.

“Do you ever cook for yourself?” I tread lightly.

“No.”

“Not even when you’re at home between jobs?”

“Nope. I don’t have a home.”

I tuck a stray hair behind my ear and readjust my glasses. “What do you mean you don’t have a home?”

How’s that possible? Where does she go on her downtime? Where’s her anchor? Geeze. I have so many damn questions, and I have a feeling she’s not gonna answer a single one.

“With all due respect, my personal life is not up for discussion.” She shuts me out.

Bingo. Nailed it. I knew that’s how she’d react. Rosie’s carefully constructed walls are taller and denser than mine. I fully respect not wanting to get close to people. That’s how I’ve spent the majority of my life, keeping everyone in my life at arm’s length. Aside from my kids, Grandma, Dad, and Brent, aka liar face Ryker. And you’ve seen what trusting him got me. To be this distant, Rosie’s skeletons have gotta be far scarier than mine. I can spot a kindred spirit from a mile away. We’re more alike than I think she realizes.

Refusing to admit defeat, I drop both packs of cookies into the cart. Don’t think I don’t notice her sidelong peek at the sweets, and the quirk in her lip. Most women would give up their right tit for chocolate. I’m willing to bet Rosie’s the same. Even if she’s a brass-balled bitch.

Trying a different tactic on for size, I waddle to the bread section and select a crusty loaf to make garlic toast tonight. Swiping the back of my hand across my forehead, I exaggerate my level of exhaustion with a woeful exhale. “Rosie, do you think you could help me with dinner? Dad and Bear said they’d be coming over, and I don’t think I can do it by myself. This baby has zapped all my energy.” Which isn’t a lie. I could use a nap. My feet do hurt. Cooking does wear me out.

Finally looking my way, her eyes widen a smidge. “You want me to help you cook?”

Instead of asking if she can cook, I opt for the simplest route, so she doesn’t think I’m prying. “If you don’t know how to prepare the meal, I can walk ya through it.”

Rosie chews on her inner cheek, red lips pouty in contemplation. “I … um … sure? I’ve never had a job before where I had to cook for anyone, but I suppose I can.” She’s uncomfortable—finicky. Wow. This is a different side to her. One that’s vulnerable and unsure. In her element, Rosie’s a charming, silver-tongued badass. Here, not so much. I liked her before. Now that I know she’s got a moat of vulnerability lurking beneath that kempt exterior, I’m endeared to her. Whether she knows it or not, I’m gonna make her my friend. Not for my sake. But hers. Something tells me Rosie needs a friend, and since I no longer have a job, my love life’s nonexistent, and I can’t do much other than read or fiddle around the house, endearing Rosie to me in return will be a worthwhile task. Anything’s better than moping around the cabin, waiting for my kids to return from school, or Ryker dropping by to feed me scraps of attention. Attention I shouldn’t want nor crave. Even though the deepest recesses of my soul are desperate to soak it up like a pathetic sponge. Freud would have a field day with me.

Clapping my hands twice, I then point to the wall of crackers. “Now pick what crackers you like. Come on. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

Rosie curbs a grin that wants to break free. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?” She chuckles to herself, combing her designer hair to one side.

“Nope. Not at all. You might be working a job. But that doesn’t mean you gotta eat nail clippings and pubic hair.”

Her button nose scrunches up. “Ewww. Gross. Whoever said I eat nail clippings and pubic hair? That’s nasty.”

I laugh. “You said you eat at crappy diners and cook frozen dinners. What do you think’s in the stuff they try to pass off as food?”

Realization dawns on her, and she shakes a playful finger at me. “Touché.” Snatching a box of buttery crackers off the shelf, she tosses them on the pile of groceries. “That work?”

“Better. Now you get to help me pick juice.”

More at ease pushing the cart, she replies, “That’s simple. Apple.”

I spot the juice at the end of the aisle. “The real or wannabe kind?”

“Real.”

In goes a bottle of natural apple juice and some fruity V8’s for the girls. Remind me to grab a jug of zero pulp freshly squeezed orange juice when I get to the milk section. Plus, I suppose I should get more milk. I didn’t check to see what the expiration date was on the one in Ryker’s sparsely stocked fridge. Though I gotta hand it to him, the canned foods section in his walk-in pantry is on point. Too bad I prefer frozen or fresh to canned.

Up one aisle and down the next, Rosie participates in deciding what we’ll eat this week. We joke about eggplant sizes. Opting for the biggest. I plan to razz Dickcheese about our purchase later. In the egg section, she does the picking while I grab a tub of real butter. All Ryker has is margarine. By the time we’re finished, Rosie’s aloofness has diminished considerably, and we’ve got ourselves an overflowing cart.

At checkout, she quietly helps me load the food onto the conveyor. “Don’t overdo it, Kat. I’ll get the rest,” she remarks when I try to reach the bottom of the cart and fail miserably, thanks to this giant bump and my vertically challenged legs. Frustrated, I concede, knowing it’s for the best.

“Thanks,” I comment.

She waves me off. “No problem.”

Underneath the cart, Rosie goes to lift the flat of bottled water when a gentlemen wearing a Sacred Sinners cut and Stetson intrudes. “Here. Why don’t ya let me get that for ya, doll.” The man kneels next to Rosie to help. For a split second, I wonder if she’ll pull a blade on him. She shocks me when she scoots back and lets him intervene. Smart woman.

Setting the water on the belt with ease, he turns to me with a toothy grin. “You must be Katrina, Ghost’s daughter.” He offers his hand.

It’s warm and firm in mine as we shake. “Nice to meet you…” I pause to read the name patch on his broad chest. “Bongo.”

Dipping his head out of respect, he kisses my knuckles. “The pleasure’s all mine, ma’am. If you need anythin’ at all, don’t hesitate to ask,” he drawls in his panty melting Texan twang.

Flashing him a parting smile, trying desperately not to blush, I bid him adieu, and check out.

Three hundred dollars later, we load up the Suburban. It’s a breeze with Rosie’s assistance. Normally, I do all the heavy lifting. Now let’s see if she can survive Kat’s no-nonsense cooking school. Eggplant lasagna is on the menu tonight. Before she knows what’s hit her, I’m gonna make Rosie a three-star chef and a friend.