Page 28 of Mine Forever
Inside, there’s a din of noise with all the people milling around, and it smells like a combination of suntan lotion and cleaning products.
I grab the last shopping cart available, and Chase—who finally put a shirt on—heads left as I head right.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Beer cooler and meat department. You got the rest, right?”
He starts to walk away, but I block him with the cart. “No, I don’t have the rest. You never told me what you wanted. How will I know what to get if I don’t know what you want?”
“Surprise me.”
Before I can respond, he sidesteps the cart and walks in the opposite direction of where I need to go.
The man knows I need a list; I thrive on them. Gripping the cart handle, I pretend it’s Chase’s neck.
Infuriating jerk.
I blow out a breath, square my shoulders, and push forward. “You can do this, Eden. You’re a professional business owner in New York City. You can handle a single meal with your ex.”
The aisles are crowded, the shelves nearly empty, and a fight between two beehived blue-hairs—their hair is literally a silver blue—breaks out in front of a toilet paper end cap.
When the plastic wrap of one of the packages rips and rolls of toilet paper start flying, I take a quick left down the nearest aisle.
And run my cart right into another customer.
“Oh, I’m sorry!”
“It’s a mess, isn’t it?”
A beautiful, dark-haired woman who looks as out of place as I feel stands across from me.
Her serene smile in the midst of the chaos is comforting. I nod and blow out a breath. “Yeah. It’s a nightmare actually.”
She chuckles and looks around. “This is the busiest I’ve ever seen it in here. I tried like hell not to end up here, but”—she shrugs a slim shoulder—“kids always have other plans.”
I study her. She looks to be a little younger than I am, dressed casually in shorts and a tank top, flip-flops on her feet, her hair pulled into a ponytail.
But she has a look about her that screams class in spite of the dressed-down attire. She certainly doesn’t look like she has kids.
And what, pray tell, are women who have kids supposed to look like, Eden?
When a lull hits the conversation, she holds out her hand. “Charley Gentry.”
Nate’s wife is a bit younger than I expected. I vaguely recall reading about her in the papers last year.
While she isn’t what I expected, she’s exactly right for Nate.
I return her handshake. “Eden Mitchell.” I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I’m usually better at the small talk.”
“First time on the island during a hurricane?”
“During a hurricane, yes. What gave me away?”
She laughs. “The deer in the headlights look was my first clue. I remember the look well. Where I come from, hurricanes aren’t a thing.”
“Where’s home for you?”
She smiles. “A mountain town called Madison Ridge in North Georgia.”
