Page 6 of Slapshot & Sweet Potato
“Don’t tempt me,” he growls.
Apparently, my grocery buddy moonlights as a getaway driver.
“Follow me to the bakery to drop these off, and then we’ll continue to the grocery store?”
“Sounds like a plan.” He doesn’t sound especially enthusiastic.
“You can keep this for now,” I say, stepping forward and tossing him the notebook where I keep my grocery list.
He surveys it for a moment. “You’re lucky I like carbs.”
The store is crowded with familiar faces amid their holiday shopping. “Hello, Mrs. Armstrong,” I smile toward the elderly lady with big cat-eye glasses as we head down the baking aisle.
“Not sure two carts will be enough,” I say, stopping in front of the flour section and eyeing the twenty-five and fifty-pound bulk bags on the bottom shelf.
“You’re a prepper on top of everything?” he jokes as I point toward a fifty-pound bag.
“I feel like one the way the meteorologists keep hyping up this storm.”
“First time I ever heard of an atmospheric river,” he grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck carefully so he doesn’t displace his hoodie. “And it doesn’t sound good.”
“Whatever comes our way, rest assured we won’t starve.”
“That’s obvious,” he mutters as I direct him to a twenty-five-pound sack of sugar next.
“I should bring you with me more often, Slapshot. You make this easy.”
He eyes me through the sunglasses, face caught somewhere between disdain and surprise.
Behind us, a voice whispers, “Is that Slapshot Lemoille?”
Wallace’s face tightens, and he pretends to study the marshmallows as they pass. I glare a warning. Thankfully, they pass without making a scene.
Then, I tease, “You always like your marshmallows pink and purple?”
He eyes the bag again, sets it down too quickly. “Can’t tell you the last time I was in a grocery store like this. Really putting myself out here for you. Least you could do is show a little appreciation.”
“That’s what the pies are for,” I say with a radiant smile.
“Good thing they’re so tasty,” he murmurs. “Especially the sweet potato.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks as I reach past him for a bag of chocolate chips. His hand comes up at the same moment, and our fingers brush.
Zing! The little snap of electricity can’t be ignored. But still I try, and so does he, clearing his throat loudly and looking away.
At checkout, the cashier goes goggly-eyed, narrowing her gaze and drooling. “Mr. Lemoille, what an honor! Can I get a selfie with you?”
Wallace steps forward uncomfortably, pushing the second full cart. His eyes meet mine. They say,I told you so. He shifts his weight uneasily, opening his mouth.
I cut him off. “Sorry, he’s on pie duty,” I say to the cashier. “Now, can we get this show on the road before the weather gets any worse?”
The wind howls around the eaves of the building, and thick, fat snowflakes slam against the massive floor-to-ceiling windows.
A middle-aged man with a brown beard helps pack the copious pile of groceries, nodding at Wallace without getting starstruck. “You two better be careful out there. We’re about to shut the whole store. Forecast is downright dangerous. So, stay off the roads.”
I don’t doubt it, looking at the white, soupy atmosphere. The lights of the grocery store flicker. “That’s all we need is the power out,” he adds, shaking his head.
On the way out, Wallace and I push our carts side by side. “This is looking really angry. You think you’ll be able to drive in it?”
