Page 3

“I’m Theo,” he offers, like the name will earn him something. “Short for Theodric. Family thing. Old-fashioned, I know.” He laughs again, all charm and calculated casualness, and steps forward. Not close enough to threaten. Just enough to make the hairs on my neck stand up. “I’m guessing you’re…?”

“Shopping,” I interrupt. “Alone. On purpose.”

His grin falters, just a crack. He recovers fast. “You’re funny. I like that.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.”

“Let me get your number?” He says it like it’s inevitable. Like this conversation has a pre-written ending, and I’ve just forgotten my lines.

I turn to him fully now, let my gaze rake up slowly, stopping just before his eyes. I don’t need to see them again. I know the type. Boys who look like summer and kiss like promises they don’t intend to keep.

“Listen, Theo,” I say, voice softening just enough to feel sharp. “You’re pretty. That’s obvious. But I’m not in the market forpretty. I’ve got more than I can handle at home, and trust me, they eat men like you for breakfast.”

He laughs again, but this time it’s uneasy. “You’re messing with me.”

“You sure about that?” I ask, letting the smile reach my mouth now, just a little. Just enough to suggest teeth.

He watches me a beat longer. I can see him working through it. The confusion. The curiosity. The slow crawl of unease that sayssomething here isn’t quite right.

I pick up my cart and steer it past him, not waiting for his reply. He calls something after me, but I don’t catch it. Doesn’t matter. He won’t follow. Because I’m not the kind of woman you chase in a grocery store. I’m the kind who feeds monsters. And they love me for it.

“Wait, hey, hold on.” The wheels of the cart don’t slow, but I hear the footsteps speeding up behind me, that eager, clumsy tempo of a man who thinks persistence is romantic.

I take the next turn down the cereal aisle, sharp and fast. Too sharp. The rosemary tips out, and I catch it midair, slipping it back into place just as he rounds the corner.

He smiles like I’ve invited him. “I swear I’m not a creep, okay?”

They all say that. Right before they are.

He’s close now. “Look, I get it. You’re playing hard to get. And you’re good at it, damn. But I’m not the kind of guy who gives up just because someone pretends not to be interested.”

“I’m not pretending,” I say, my voice level measured. “This is the part where you walk away before this gets embarrassing.”

But he doesn’t. He shifts forward, body crowding a little more of the narrow aisle, cutting off the exit like it’s some flirty joke.

“I just think you’re different,” he says, leaning on the handle of his cart now like we’re settling in for coffee. “You’ve got this vibe. Mysterious. Kind of... dangerous hot?” His voice dips like that’s supposed to hook me. “And maybe I’m into that.”

I let the silence spool out just long enough to make him uncomfortable.

“YouthinkI’m dangerous?” I take a step closer now, and his grin wavers, just a flicker. My voice stays low. Intimate. Like a whisper sharp enough to bleed. “That’s adorable.”

He swallows. Still trying to grin, but there’s a nervous twitch now at the corner of his mouth. I watch it bloom.

“Here’s the thing, Theo. You’re too pretty for your good and too stupid to notice when a woman says no. That combo gets people hurt. Not in a meet-cute way. In ayou end up with your dignity smeared across the linoleumway.”

His smile collapses, finally. “Whoa. Okay. No need to get nasty.”

“You’re right,” I say, tilting my head. “Iwasbeing polite before. Now I’m not.”

I push the cart forward, brushing past him like he’s furniture. He flinches. Doesn’t move.

Smart boy. Because whatever flirtation he thought he was chasing, whatever fantasy he imagined, he’s seen what lives behind my eyes now. And it didn’t smile back.

The bakery is half a battlefield now. Silas’s goddamn muffins, mini, blueberry, triple chocolate, and whatever new obscenitythey’ve invented since last week, line the shelf like bait. I reach for them, basket cradled in one arm, already bracing for the next round of absurd group chat demands.

And there he is. Leaning against the edge of a display, arms crossed, that cocky, sun-touched smirk stretching across his too-handsome face like he’s enjoying this more than he should.

I ignore him. Deliberately. Muffins into the cart. Croissants. The espresso Ambrose requested. I scan the labels, calculating caffeine strength like it matters, like my spine isn’t prickling from the weight of his stare.