Total pages in book: 146
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137077 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 685(@200wpm)___ 548(@250wpm)___ 457(@300wpm)
“Okay,” Cameron says, grabbing his keys.
A few minutes later, I do the same, slipping my coat on and heading to the grocery store. I feel a bit adrift, though there’s no reason to. It was a great night, and Cameron gave me no sign that he has any regrets… yet. For now, it’s business as usual.
Business. Because he’s still my boss.
I try to remind myself that he flat-out said he doesn’t want a bang nanny, and I believed him, so shocked at his use of the term that I’d stared slack-jawed at him and saw his distaste for the very idea of it. That’s not what this is. At all.
It’s two people who feel something, taking their time to define what that might be and not rushing into something willy-nilly when kids are involved. It’s… mature. That sort of feels new, and good.
I’ve got one earbud in as I make my way up and down the aisles, putting various things in my cart. My chicken and dumpling recipe is a tried-and-true classic I can do with my hands tied behind my back, though I’d rather not try it.
Actually, that could be fun. Maybe we can do some sort of chef game that way tonight. I bet Grace would get a kick out of that.
And maybe later, Cameron and I could use the ties for other things. Or hell, still for tying hands… that’d be fun too, especially when there’s no cooking happening.
I’m so distracted by the idea that I almost run into someone at the end of the soup aisle. “Sorry,” I say quickly, looking up to meet the eyes of the one person I wish I never had to see again. “Austin?”
Shit. Fuck. And damn. What is he doing here?
I glance around like there might be someone to help me or some logical reason for him to be standing in the grocery store five minutes from Cameron’s and over four hours away from his house with Beth. With no cart, not a single item in his hands, and his eyes dropping over me in a completely non-fatherly sort of way.
I’m dressed warmly for the November weather outside in shredded black jeans with striped tights beneath them, a long-sleeved shirt, a flannel, and a vest, plus my boots and jewelry. Somehow, I still feel naked.
I’d almost forgotten how uncomfortable he makes me feel, especially since it’s been months since I’ve seen him. I’d naively hoped that this would far enough away that he wouldn’t show up at places I go the way he had when I’d been closer. It seems I was wrong.
“Hey, Rye. Fancy seeing you here. You’re looking good.”
Swallowing down my unease, I snap, “What are you doing here?” I make sure the cart is between me and him, even though I don’t think he’s going to actually try anything in the middle of the store.
He’s never laid a hand on me in any sort of way, but he still sets off every self-preservation alarm I have, and they’re finely tuned enough that I trust them implicitly despite Austin never going too far.
It’s not because I don’t think he would. He’s just good enough at manipulating people—me included—that he hasn’t had to push things into the realm of actual threats and bodily injury. Yet.
“Grabbing a few things for the kids, you know. They need…” He looks at the hanging rack next to him and picks up the advertised item there. “Pop Tarts. The cookies n’ cream ones are Brayden’s favorite.”
I don’t know who Brayden is. He must be one of the current foster kids, but I have no doubt that Austin has never once fed him a name-brand breakfast pastry, especially one closer to dessert than a breakfast food.
“There you go, then. Good-bye.” I keep my voice clipped and no-nonsense. And though I hate to do it, I push my cart past Austin and turn the corner. I can feel his eyes on me as I walk away, forcing myself not to run the way I instinctively want to.
Prey runs. And I’m not prey. Certainly not Austin’s.
I look over my shoulders the whole time I’m checking out, speed walking to my car and throwing my groceries in the backseat. I don’t even put my cart away, which is the pinnacle of rudeness as far as I’m concerned. Driving home, I glance in my rearview mirror a thousand times, and though I don’t see anything suspicious, my heart races the whole time. I don’t think I breathe until I’m back home, with the garage door closed behind me. Finally, I relax. But only a little.
I hate Austin so much, hate this reaction he pulls up inside me. I consider calling Cole to see if he’s checked on the foster kids lately or ask if he knows why Austin is in this area, but I sigh. Austin didn’t really do or say anything. He didn’t even ask me for money this time. Just said hello.