Page 22 of Quarantine Crush
“Right. True. Except I don’t know how to cook.”
“Liar. I’ve had your brisket.”
“Yeah, but that’s grilled.”
She shrugs. “I have a grill on the balcony. Feel free to use it.”
I exhale. Okay. I can do that.
Damn, fourteen days inside with nothing except what we buy today is sounding more and more intimidating.
“Let’s go find the meat then,” I say.
Emy giggles, and I grin at the dirty joke.
Our amusement is short-lived when we get farther inside and see how bare the shelves are. Most of the non-perishable items have been nearly cleaned out. We arrive at the toilet paper aisle in time to see two women practically coming to blows over a pack of Charmin.
Emy stops, pressing in close to me as we watch their heated exchange. I’m about to step in and tell Karen and Becky what I think of their desperate behavior, but thankfully, a manager shows up and does it for me.
“What the hell is wrong with people?” I grumble.
“Right?” Emy snorts. “I only throw down over Angel Soft, personally.”
I shake my head. “Well, it looks like you’re going to have to settle for Royal Blue.” I grab the last lonely package of toilet paper and put it in the cart before anyone notices we’ve scored it.
“What’s Royal Blue?” she asks.
“No idea. But it’s what we’ve got. And it says it’s two-ply. Come on, let’s get out of here before we have to shank someone to keep it.”
“Oh, this way. We definitely need wine for this.” Emy scurries off toward the alcohol, and I follow because she’s not wrong. I have a feeling we’re going to need a lot of happy hours before this is over.
Not that I don’t like spending time with Emy. Still, even if we do manage to pretend like that kiss never happened–which, so far, hasn’t happened for any meaningful length of time–I’m not so sure I can stop noticing her sexy body. That’s a switch that can’t be unflipped–no matter how much I wish it could.
After we’ve stocked up on booze, we grab what we can from our list and head toward checkout. Half the people we pass are wearing masks, mostly homemade, and I do a double-take at one guy in a scuba mask.
Emy presses her lips together to keep from laughing aloud.
I’m about to point out another mask option which is, no shit, a Jason mask from Halloween. But when I turn to Emy, she’s gone.
A quick one-eighty spin reveals her standing halfway down the baking aisle. She has her head thrown back in a laugh that lights up her face in a way I haven’t seen in a long time. Definitely not at all since I arrived here this trip. A pang hits my chest when I realize she hasn’t been this relaxed with me. Then I see who’s made her laugh, and the pang turns to a jealous rage.
A guy I’ve never seen before is standing way too damn close to Emy. He’s tan with perfectly styled hair that only dudes who spend way too much money at a salon can achieve, and he’s rocking one of those metro man bags. He stares down at Emy, his mouth curved in a smile suggesting a familiarity that makes me see red.
I push the cart fast enough that the wheels screech as I speed-walk toward them, barely managing to avoid clipping an old lady riding one of those motorized store scooters.
“Sorry, ma’am,” I say, wincing.
She looks me right in the eye and says, “Today’s youth can suck my tit.”
Fair enough.
I race up to where Emy and the asshole are talking. When they both look up at my abrupt arrival, I fix the asshole with a death glare.
“Six feet, motherfucker,” I say in my best Jason Statham voice.
He blinks. “What?”
“Knox? What the hell?” Emy hisses.
