I Promise You: Stand-Alone College Sports Romance(8)

“Girls follow me everywhere. I’m used to it, but you’re kind of strange, and if I need to call security…” He shrugs broad shoulders.

Ugh! I sputter as indignation rises, mixing with my insane and, yes, irrational need to needle the jock. This was supposed to be about getting the video, but now I just want to push his buttons. Maybe it’s because he reminds me of my ex and his entourage.

“I just want the Oreos,” I snap.

He picks up a bag of M&M’s, throws them in his cart, and moves ahead of me. “Huh, I bet Walmart is still open.”

I resist the urge to stamp my foot. “That’s on the other side of town. I still need to finish my shopping then go visit my nana at the nursing home. You know what her favorite cookie is?”

“Oreos, I wager,” he drawls. “Poor Nana. If only you’d asked nicer, maybe batted those lashes at me, I might have been willing—”

“Dillon! Which beer did you want? There isn’t much to choose from,” calls Ashley from the other end of the aisle as she holds up a six-pack of Bud Light in one hand and Michelob in the other. She poses against the end cap, and I arch my brow. It really is a pretty cow dress. It’s super tight, but I’ve worn just as clingy, although I didn’t look as good as she does.

He smiles broadly at her, the effect lighting up his face, and it’s such a different expression than he was giving me that my ire rises higher. “Nah, sweetheart, none of that piss. Get the Fat Tire—it’s all I drink.”

“Flat Tire, right,” she says.

“No—Fat Tire,” he replies.

She huffs and glares at the other girls. “I told y’all this wasn’t right!” She smiles for Mr. Hot Pants. “Got it, Babycakes! I’ll get them all just for you!”

She blows him kisses, barely sparing me a glance, then disappears down another aisle, and when I pivot back around, he’s moved closer to me. The scent of him hits me, assailing my senses, the smell of leather (of course) mixed with earthy male spice, perhaps sandalwood and vanilla. It’s disgusting.

I crane my neck to look up at him. “Stealthy, aren’t you. That’s not a question, but a rhetorical statement. What are you doing?” The pitch of my voice escalates as he eases closer.

“I know you.” His voice has deepened, soft and silky.

“I have one of those faces. I’m a chameleon.”

“Hmm.” His eyes stare into mine, and this close, I see the ring of silver around his irises, like lightning. He drops his gaze to look at my unimpressive chest.

I resist the urge to straighten my shoulders.

“You follow the band?”

Oh. I glance down at the faded Four Dragons shirt, a Vane castoff, one I haven’t been able to let go of. In the early days, I slept in it, wishing away the heartache, but now I wear it because it’s roomy and clean and in my drawer. I can proudly say I put it on without even thinking of him.

I shrug nonchalantly. “Pretty sure I heard them a time or two.” What I don’t say is, Well, I was with the lead singer for years then the world caught fire. A tight feeling grows in my throat and I push those thoughts down, trap them in a box, wrap a thick chain around them, and toss them into a dark closet.

He takes his hat off, rakes a hand through his messy hair, and readjusts the cap so the bill is facing forward. “Crazy that those local guys now have songs on the Billboard charts. Makes me feel like I knew them. What was the lead singer’s name? Vince? No…”

“Vane,” I mutter. His band is alternative rock mixed with Delta blues, eccentric in sound and heavy on angsty lyrics. He even wrote a song about me after our breakup: “Sweet Serena”. I picture him now, his midnight hair, his tattooed body—probably curled up next to a groupie.

“Right.” He’s studying me. I’m not sure he’s stopped staring, as if I’m a puzzle he can’t figure out. “What’s your name?” He takes another step toward me, and I press back against the cookie shelf. He has no personal space bubble!

My heart skips and I get a strange prickle along my neck, an awareness of something rich and complicated threatening to suck me down. He’s managed to get under my skin, though I’m impervious.

I inhale sharply as our eyes cling. Something about him jogs my memory—

“Excuse me.” I maneuver my cart around his and disappear down the next aisle.

God. No video is worth putting up with some pigskin-toting Casanova.

A few minutes later, I head toward the checkout aisle and get in line. Mr. Hot Pants and his entourage come up behind me. Inside the narrow space, bracketed by candy on one side and magazines on the other, I inch forward, putting distance between us. I jerk up a copy of the World Enquirer and flip through it. UFOs spotted in Canada, a sea serpent spotted off the coast of Cornwall, Katy Perry pregnant with a bat baby… I huff. I can write better sensationalized fiction with my eyes closed.

He towers behind me, his body sending off enough heat to power an entire city. The woman ahead of me finishes with her purchase, and I move forward and set the four six-packs of Fat Tire on the belt.

Yeah. I grabbed them all.

The moment he sees what I have, the air charges with tension.

“Come on, now you’re just being spiteful. You took all the beer,” he says.

“What’s wrong?” says the blonde.