Page 63 of The Bodyguard Affair
Weirdly enough, navigating the crowd isn’t as terrible as I’d imagined. Maybe it’s the ice cream. Or maybe it’s just a symptom of shopping with Nolan. The crowd tends to part for him in a way they never do for me, maybe because he’s a tall man with a commanding presence.
“Is that a sample station?” I ask, nodding toward a spiky-haired lady behind a table serving little muffin holders of fresh banana bread.
He immediately swivels the cart toward it. “It is. Let’s go.”
“I thought Costco samples were the stuff of legend.”
“Nope. You could come here for a whole meal’s worth of food if you wanted to.”
The lady looks like she’d rather be literally anywhere else, but he manages to charm a smile out of her. “Can I get one for my girlfriend as well?” he asks, so naturally, I almost believe him.
“Anything for such a beautiful couple,” the lady says, revealing her dimples. She happily hands him a second sample, which he passes to me, his lips turning up in a grin. Not just any grin, but that boyish, infectious grin that makes my heart do a back handspring. For a couple aisles, I let myself imagine we’re a real couple here on a Saturday afternoon. It’s good practice for when we’re at work, I justify to myself.
We make a game of it, grabbing ingredients and beelining to every sample station. I’m basically a kid in a candy store, indulging in everything from teriyaki chicken to smoked Gouda to chocolate-covered almonds.
We weave through the crowd, zeroing in on the quiche samples. Nolan checks in every so often to make sure I’m okay, which I am. By the time we reach the checkout, the cart is full, and Nolan is carrying a tray of mini cheesecakes he insisted we buy (to keep up the tradition). “So how was your very first Costco experience?”
“It’s my new favorite place,” I say, leaving out the fact that it’s only because I was with him.
• • •
“How does it taste?” Nolan asks hours later, leaning his weight against my kitchen counter.
I stare up at him, letting the spicy cinnamon flavor melt over my tongue, attempting to mask my expression as I pass him the other half. We’re so close, there’s got to be less than an inch between our chests. And it’s not by choice. That’s how small my kitchen is.
Baking Gretchen’s cookies was a tricky affair, between trying to keep all the ingredients organized and navigating such a narrow space between the two of us. There were multiple moments where we brushed against each other. Like when he reached around me to grab the sugar from the cabinet behind me, his beard grazed my cheek, our chests pressed together, and I lost a couple years off my lifespan. Maybe it was the shock, or the fatigue, or the cookies (though I don’t think anyone inhistory has ever been turned on by a vegan cookie), but there was a beat where we both lingered there, frozen, until he pulled away abruptly and spun around to measure out a cup of sugar.
“Um, it tastes like…vegan,” I say honestly, pulling at the fabric of my dress, which is basically glued to my chest with sweat. It’s ridiculously hot in here, even with my AC fixed. That’s the downside of living on the top floor of an old building. And then there’s the fact that the oven has been on for four straight hours.
His lips twist as he finds out for himself. After one bite, he hits his own chest to force it down with a vicious cough. “That’s…grainy. Do you think we messed up the recipe? Added too much cinnamon?”
“Nope. We read it over like, five times. I think it’s supposed to taste like this…”
“Like potting soil?” he clarifies. He’s not wrong. It does have a rather…earthy aftertaste.
I gobble it down like a hyena anyway, because eating myself into intestinal distress is my go-to coping mechanism when I’m tense (or in this case, an unbearably horny mess). “Good thing it’s Gretchen’s opinion that matters.”
“At least we can say we tried,” he says with a shrug, helping me pop the rest of the cookies into an old Christmas cookie container before I can do any more damage.
I pull myself onto the one free space on the counter, relishing the feeling of the cool laminate against my thighs. “Thanks for all your help. I feel bad that you spent your whole Saturday baking cookies with me.” It took four hours, but we’ve made and labeled them all, except for the last batch of devil’s chocolate chip, which is still in the oven.
“Nah. If anything, you helped me. I was having a crappy couple days. It was just nice to get out of the house and do something.”
I consider asking him to elaborate on his bad days, but I don’t want to pry. It doesn’t feel like my place. “Seriously, though, I have no idea what I would have done baking these all by myself.”
“You would have pulled it off. You’re self-sufficient,” he teases, leaning back against the counter next to me, hands planted on either side of him. It’s not lost on me that his pinky is grazing my thigh, ever so slightly.
I force down a swallow at the contact. “When you’ve been single as long as I have, you don’t really have a choice.”
“Do you ever feel lonely?” he asks, immediately regretting it. “Sorry. That was rude. I’ve been spending too much time with my mom lately.”
“No, it’s okay. I do. Sometimes. When Hunter and I broke up, it was the small things I missed, more so than him. Like doing mundane things together. Errands, chores, even getting up in the morning, drinking coffee, all those small things that suck when you’re by yourself.” I still remember shuffling around the grocery store with my cart with that thickness in my throat, the deep ache I felt in my bones in those first few weeks after Hunter. “It’s nice to have someone to do those things with. Someone to make the boring things tolerable, maybe even fun.”Like shopping with you at Costco, I want to say. “What about you? Do you feel lonely?” I ask instead.
He tilts his head in thought. “I guess I probably am lonely, but usually too busy to notice until I’m in between assignments. I don’t know if being lonely is enough of a reason to get into a relationship with someone.”
“Right? Is it worth the stress? The potential heartbreak? All the emotional demands of being in a relationship? The independence is nice, too, once you’re used to it. My mom was always so reliant on my dad or stepdad to do things for her. I like knowing I can figure things out for myself. Except building my IKEA desk,” I add wryly.
He swings me a knowing look. “Or getting your patio door lock fixed.”
