Page 37 of What Hurts Us

“Easy, tiger,” I murmured into the crown of her head, hiding the comment with a kiss to her hair.

It should have been illegal for her hair to smellthatgood. It was intoxicating. I’d fail a breathalyzer if I filled my lungs with her scent. It was floral and fresh but ridiculously sexy with notes of something woodsy and aromatic.

She softened into my side, nearly melting into my ribs. The patronizing smile she gave BJ would have felled a more self-aware woman. “Oh, I’m not worried.” Layla beamed at me, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I don’t think a date with Callum will be auctioned off this year.”

BJ paled—a miraculous feat considering the layers of spray tan and caked-on makeup. “But… But he has to!” She stamped a heeled foot.

Layla didn’t argue. She didn’t even acknowledge the life-sized temper tantrum that was blocking the aisle. “Well, it wasverynice meeting you, Brandie Jean, but Cal and I have a little shopping to get done. Say—do you know where the bedding is? We need a few more sets of sheets. Since we moved in together, we’ve put Cal’s sheets to work more than usual. It’sa lotof laundry.” With a giggle, she looked up at me and added, “Isn’t that right,baby?”

I kissed her temple, humming in acknowledgment against her skin. “Maybe two or three sets of sheets,sweet pea.”

Brandie Jean was gutted, and Layla—that woman deserved an Academy Award. Her hand had moved from my chest to my stomach, gentle warmth pressing against my abs. “Nice runnin’ into you, BJ,” I said with a nod as I grabbed the cart handle and backed away. “You have a good afternoon.”

Layla held it together as we made a mad dash for the bedding section. We didn’t need any, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to give BJ any reason to call my bluff. We could hide between displays, pretending to discuss thread counts and the merits of cotton versus flannel versus silk and satin sheets.

“Oh my God!” Layla snickered as we ducked behind a display bed that had been piled to the heavens with useless throw pillows and tufted bedding. “So that’stheBrandie Jean? I mean, I’ve seen her from a distance around town, but up close is…” She laughed. “So much worse.”

“Uh-huh,” I grunted, craning my head over the gray headboard to make sure she wasn’t within earshot. Luckily, BJ had been distracted by the as-seen-on-TV display. She had a BumpIt in one hand and a machine that claimed to turn zucchini into spaghetti in the other.

“Okay,” Layla declared, hands on hips. She looked like she’d just gone nine rounds with a mountain lion. “I get it now.” She waved her hand, clearing the imaginary slate between us. “Makes total sense.”

“What does?”

“I get why the heck you would ask a total stranger to pretend to date you and then get fake engaged. That woman is a stage-five clinger with a serious disregard for personal space.”

I pulled one of Brandie Jean’s blonde hairs from my tongue. “Agreed.”

“But it does beg the question of why you haven’t told her to leave you alone.”

I did not want to be having this confessional in the bedding aisle, but the bath, beyond, and Layla stood between me and avoiding the truth. “Because I care, okay?”

Her eyebrows raised, but she didn’t say anything. Didn’t pester me. Didn’t prod or push.

It was the same thing she’d done in the car that had me running my mouth about my bike and why I chose to hop on a two-wheeled death machine.

With a sigh, I added, “She’s part of my town.A very annoying part of my town, but part of it nonetheless. It’s my job to protect and serve.”

“Isn’t telling the truth part of serving?”

I crossed my arms. “You’ve been in Falls Creek for what—two months? Your first day, you scraped me off the asphalt because I’d gotten in a car accident that involved a fuckin’ cow. This town as a whole is a menace to society. If they realize that I actually care, they won’t listen anymore. It’s like having a thousand children and trying to keep them from accidentally killing themselves or each other.” I scrubbed my palms down my face. “Keeping these fuckin’ Creekers in line is like herding cats.”

Her smile was soft, her touch warm as she squeezed my arm. It was gentle yet firm. “I think they already know you care, Cal.”

Instead of tumbling into Layla’s deep brown eyes, I spotted BJ’s blonde bouffant bobbing toward the store’s exit, shopping bags piled high in her basket. I put my hand on Layla’s back and steered her toward the kitchen section. “Come on,pumpkin. Let’s go find some damn bowls.”

* * *

“I should’ve askedif you were okay with barbecue,” I said under my breath as Layla and I waited in line beneath a white tent outside of the fire department. Sporadic spurts of rain splattered on the vinyl overhead. The temperature had dropped significantly since she and I left the house to pick up a few overdue necessities for my kitchen.

I’d pop the question soon, I had decided while Layla debated the merits of coffee mug sizes in the middle of aisle nine. She went with the largest ones she could find. It was fine by me. I’d stick with the insulated thermos I carted to and from my cruiser each day. At one point, she had me pick between the oversized yellow mug that was shaped like a pineapple and the green one that looked like a rotund frog on a lily pad.

When she held them up on either side of her grinning cheeks, I couldn’t help but laugh. I told her to get both. The smile on her face was too fuckin’ cute.

Not that I told her that. There were no feelings to be had in our arrangement. This wasquid pro quoand nothing more. I could appreciate her, though. I’d just keep it to myself. Easy-peasy.

The line shuffled forward, and we got closer and closer to the enticing wafts of barbecue clouding around the whole-hog smoker. Waiting outside of the fire department for a styrofoam plate from the Ladies Auxiliary barbecue fundraiser wasn’t exactly a glamorous date, but we were starving, and it meant that the busybodies around town would see us together. Two birds, one stone.

Layla teetered on one foot as she craned around the person in front of us and studied the sign. “Pulled pork is alright, but I’m more of a chopped brisket sandwich kind of girl.” She peered around at the chicken quarters lying on the smoker grates, getting slathered in homemade barbecue sauce. “But the chicken…”

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