STELLA
Even though it wasn’t very warm out that day, Nick carefully maneuvered the Love Boat into the single shady space in the vast superstore parking lot so that Priscilla would stay cool. We locked up every window, and he double-checked all the doors twice. Hand in hand, we walked across the newly paved parking lot, still somehow rubbery and slightly sticky underfoot. I grabbed a loose shopping cart that was blocking a parking space right next to the cart corral—Why did people do that? Why?—and together we pushed it inside.
“HowcanIhelpyou,” said the greeter in one solid string of syllables, no spaces in between the words, without looking up from his phone.
“We’re good, man, thanks,” said Nick as he took over cart-pushing duty, his thick and muscular inked forearms making a swoon-worthy contrast to the reminder to Always buckle up your child in the cart seat!
First, we rumbled toward the produce section, which was nearest the entrance. While I put a few apples in a bag, he leaned on the cart and contemplated the banana display. He really was so cute. It was like watching a lion learn to make biscuits or something. I suspected he’d probably never pushed a cart around in his life. He was probably a six-pack-and-six-eggs shopper. I spun the plastic bag with the apples to twist the top closed and put it in the cart. “Something tells me I might be domesticating you.”
Glancing at me, he put a small bunch of nearly ripe bananas in the front part of the cart and wrapped his arm around my waist. “Pretty sure it’s exactly what I needed.”
I moaned a little. A montage began to run through my head, the sort of thing that would be plunked square in the middle of some cute rom-com: me teaching him to make sugar cookies, him sprinkling the frosting with rainbow nonpareils. Me teaching him to make caramel for apple dipping; us retiling a bathroom. Him teaching me to ride the motorcycle on some rural road. Us playing Scrabble on Friday nights over beers and chips and salsa. I had never imagined myself doing any of those things with any man, and oh my goodness it sounded so very wonderful indeed.
From there, we went over to meats. He picked out two New York strips, so I looped back to produce and picked out two baking potatoes. He got a six-pack of beer, and I got a bottle of red wine, a can of peaches, and a small container of orange juice. “For sangria,” I said as I grabbed a lemon from its little basket by the fish counter.
“I like your style,” he said, and gave my hip a little squeeze. “And for the record, I’m definitely going to be requesting this outfit again. Especially the boots.”
“Speaking of which,” I said as we rumbled down the aisle past some cases of bottled water, “we need to figure out a plan for you, mister.” I reached up and tugged on his hat. “This is a start, but only a start.”
As if right on cue, a little boy holding a half-eaten doughnut stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Nick with his mouth open. He blinked once and then pointed at him very slowly.
We kept on rolling, but I eyed Nick to say, See? The fact was, we were hardly going to be able to disguise him in a cardigan and a pair of dad jeans. The man was a beast, and there was no hiding it.
I looked him up and down and thought it over. In my book, disguises were like electrical work: when done well, nobody noticed. When done badly, disaster.
I took charge of cart-pushing duty. We couldn’t be discussing the details of his disguise right there in the middle of meats and poultry—we needed a quiet spot. And I knew just the place. I steered toward the first aid products and pain medications, and made for the quietest part of the store, where Roxie, Ruth, and I had often sheltered for a quick huddle: feminine hygiene.
However, what I had forgotten was that it was right next to the tamely named Personal Products section. My eyes landed on an exotic-looking box, a luscious deep red with gold writing, featuring the words warming and enhanced sensation. My lady-loins gave me a little shiver. Focusing here would be impossible. “On second thought, camping supplies is probably pretty quiet.”
Nick didn’t budge or even look at me. He was too busy considering two different types of lube. “Got a preference?”
“Or frozen vegetables?”
He dropped the purple bottle into the cart and shook his head. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
I dragged my eyes off a small flower-shaped vibrator. Focus, Stella. Focus. I worked my hands into fists and looked up at Nick.
Here were the facts: He was a tatted-up biker with a felony record and a swagger. He was hunky. He was manly. He was looking at me like he wanted to rip off all my clothes and get us booked for public indecency. And we hadn’t even gotten on the highway.
So I had to work with all of that. There was, I was very well aware, no fighting the force that was Nick Norton. That meant it was best to stick to the canvas that we had already. To add something that fit with what he already appeared to be. But it had to be something unusual enough to distract from what was already there as well. I ran my eyes up his arms and over his muscular chest. I zeroed in on his thick, tanned neck. And that was when it hit me.
He’d given me the answer already, and he didn’t even know it. It was the only thing he’d mentioned about the guy who had arrested him. “Remember you told me about that guy you met during that thing in Santa Fe?”
Nick squinted for a second, then nodded and lifted his eyebrow. “Before I went . . . on vacation?”
“Yeah. Remember what you said?” I asked.
His eyes widened, and he placed his palm between his collarbone and his ear on the right side. “It was a bald eagle. Ugliest fucking thing I ever saw.”
“Think it was real?”
Nick shook his head. “Looked it. But now I doubt it.”
I nibbled on my finger and looked him in the eye. If we had been planning this in February, it would’ve taken a special trip or even an online order. But fortunately, it was the season of roasted chiles, frost in the morning . . . and Halloween costumes.
“Come with me,” I said, and maneuvered the cart toward the seasonal merchandise.
The temporary tattoos were sandwiched between the princess costumes and the masks. I scanned the rows and options. There was the usual array of butterflies, dolphins, lotuses, and tribal ropes. I was no stranger to temporary tattoos. I’d been sticking them on Roxie for fun—and for jobs—for years.
“They never look real, Stella,” Nick said. “If they did, I wouldn’t be inked up like a Bic pen.”
“I know,” I said as I considered a pair of boxing gloves, but quickly moved on. “I’ve got something in my makeup bag, though. It’s what costume designers use for this stuff. Works great. We just have to find the right one.”
And there, at the bottom, I saw it. It was naughty, edgy, and very him. Or maybe very us.
A sexy pinup girl.
She had long dark hair and wore an old-fashioned polka-dot bikini. She had a little line of cleavage, and she stood on her tiptoes in bare feet. “What about this?”
Nick studied it for a second, but I could tell he wasn’t totally sold. It was a little bit wholesome for him, I did have to admit. He looked at the rack again, and that was when he began to smile. He crouched down and grabbed the one that had been behind my choice.
“How about this?” Nick said.
It was another pinup girl, but this one had her hand on her hip, her shoulder raised, and underneath her bent leg was a small box of TNT. She was in a leopard-skin bikini, with shoulder-length blonde hair, motorcycle boots . . . and bright-red lips. Just like me in my bad-girl disguise. “Minus the TNT, it’s a perfect match,” I said as I dropped it in the cart.
“Nah, gorgeous,” he said as we headed for the checkout. “You’ve got dynamite under you. I promise.”
“I do?” I asked, leaning into him and giggling.
“Oh yeah,” he growled. “A ton at least.”