Page 31 of The Beach Shack Summer
Stella approached cautiously. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Pop-Tarts,” she said immediately. “The frosted strawberry kind.”
Meg wrote it down, trying not to wince.
“Actual pasta. Not the chickpea kind.”
“Regular pasta,” Meg noted.
“Chips. Cookies. Normal milk, not oat or almond or whatever.” Stella was on a roll now. “Bagels. Cream cheese. Orange juice with pulp?—”
“Pulp?” Tyler made a face.
“Pulp is the best part.”
“Pulp is texture where texture shouldn’t be.”
“Your opinion is wrong.”
“My opinion is—” Tyler stopped, realizing he was arguing about orange juice with his daughter. His daughter. Who was here, in his kitchen, requesting Pop-Tarts.
“I’ll go shopping,” Meg offered.
Stella’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll get the wrong kind.”
“I can follow a list.”
“There are like eighteen kinds of Pop-Tarts. And you’ll probably get the organic version.”
“They make organic Pop-Tarts?” Meg asked.
“See? This is what I’m talking about.” Stella crossed her arms. “I’m coming with you.”
Meg looked slightly panicked. “Oh. Um.”
“Please,” Tyler said quickly. “Meg, please. Take her with you.”
His sister shot him a look that promised futureretribution, but nodded. “Okay. Sure. Shopping. Together.”
“I need to get to the Shack anyway,” Tyler added. “Told Margo I’d be back to help with lunch prep.”
“Convenient,” Meg muttered.
“I’ll head out too,” Luke said, clearly recognizing an exit cue. “Marina doesn’t run itself.”
“Thanks for the help,” Tyler said, meaning it.
“Anytime.” Luke kissed Meg’s cheek. “Good luck shopping.”
Tyler caught the casual intimacy of it, filed it away. “We’re definitely talking about this later,” he said mildly, gesturing between them.
“Fair enough,” Luke said with a grin.
“Good luck shopping?” Stella asked, reappearing. “Why does everyone keep saying it like that? It’s groceries, not war.”
“You’ve never seen Meg in a grocery store,” Tyler said. “She organizes her cart by food groups.”
