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We toss my pain meds onto the belt, the clerk slides everything across the scanner, and the bagger sets to work on my items while I throw questioning looks over my shoulder at Loomis. He’s not looking at me, though. He’s reading the same magazines the girls were.

“Miss, you need to use your Face ID in order to use your phone payment.”

“Right.” I’d blush if I weren’t so distracted.

I gather my bag with my good hand and step away from Loomis, but I linger by the exit as he pays and speaks with an American accent when he’s asked a question about how old his son is. He finishes paying and takes his two large reusable shopping bags and tucks them under the back of the stroller. His eyes search around until they find mine, and when they do, a smile curls up the corners of his lips.

His stride is confident, and his shoulders are broad on his tall frame as he saunters toward me. People may not know it’s him, but they sure as hell take noticeofhim. It’s impossible not to. Even with the odd disguise that has him looking like an undercover hipster and not at all like the glossy figure from the tabloids. The thought brings a smile to my lips that he easily returns, coming in beside me and bobbing his head toward the motorized doors.

Silently, we step out into the cold, gray Boston day, the sidewalks crowded with lunchtime traffic as they dodge the snow and slush that line it. I’m hyperaware of Loomis beside me, the clack of the stroller’s wheels on the pavement a rhythmic accompaniment to my erratic heartbeat.

I don’t know why I’m reacting this way to him. Like I’m a jittery teenager. I’m over him. I know I am. Those months with Alden did the trick, but there’s still something so magnetic about him that I can’t help but feel the pull.

“Glad we’re finally out of there,” he exults as we head deeper into the North End. He nudges my shoulder, his gaze dancing about my face before deliberately dropping to my wrist. He takes the bag from my other hand, carrying it for me while grimacing at the sturdy-looking brace I’m rocking from my hand to my forearm.

“It’s broken,” I explain. “Hence why I’m not working today. In fact, I’ve been placed on semi-medical leave for the next four to six weeks. Full leave if I choose to take my PTO or do FMLA.”

“You know I don’t know what those acronyms mean, right?”

I laugh. “Paid time off or Family Medical Leave Act.”

Loomis frowns and gently tugs on a piece of my hair before tucking it back behind my ear and dragging his thumb over my diamond earring. The contact makes me shudder ever so slightly, but he doesn’t pull away, and I wonder if he can feel it. If he knows how I react to him.

“I’m sorry. That’s awful. You must be in so much pain.”

“Nothing terrible. It’s why I got those meds to help.” He hasn’t let go of my hair. He’s still holding the strand between his fingers, playing with it, and using his other hand, the one with my bag, to push the stroller. Between last night and now, it’s the most he’s ever touched me—willingly, that is—and I’m not sure what to make of it.

He loops my hair around his finger and brings me closer to his side as we walk. “I feel like a real prat for not catching you before you fell. I could have saved the day movie star action-hero style.”

I step to the side and move my hair to my other shoulder, forcing his hand to fall. His touch isn’t helping anything right now. It’s only messing with my head. “It’s not your fault. It was mine for wearing impractical boots and skipping on ice like I’m Mary freaking Poppins. I’m not always that clumsy, but I definitely have my moments.”

He lingers on my face and down to my hair, then puts both hands back on the stroller, his gaze straight ahead as if that moment never happened.

He clears his throat, but I still catch something else. Something I can’t name hidden beneath his even tone when he says, “You know I texted you last night, and you didn’t reply.”

“I went to bed early,” I lie. I saw his text and I debated returning it. It was sweet and concerned, but he’s a guy I crushed on for far too long, and after being rejected by him in the past and now getting my heart broken by Alden, I’m emotionally raw. I know it. I can feel it. And since Loomis isn’t offering for me to get under him to get over my ex, I need to protect myself a bit.

I don’t need to feel any more rejected than I already do.

We come to an intersection, and I go to take my bag back. “I’m going this way.” I bob my head right.

He glances around and then back at me. “Are you busy at the moment? Is there something you need to get home for?”

“No. Not really,” I admit. I responded to the publisher’s offer this morning, letting them know that I’m very interested in their proposal and that I look forward to discussing it further. Then I went and spoke to Carter. Now I’m here, and I don’t think I can type with this brace on. It was already problematic this morning when I replied to the email since I had to do it all left-handedbecause when I tried to do it with both hands, it wasn’t the most comfortable.

I either won’t be writing for the next four to six weeks or I’m going to have to teach myself to dictate fast.

“Come to my flat, would you? I’ll make us lunch and explain everything about Fen.”

“You don’t owe?—”

“I know I don’t,” he cuts in, his tone serious. “And if you’d rather not know, I understand. But I could use a friend right now, and you look like you could, too, and we both have nothing but time on our hands. I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Damn, clearly I’m crap at hiding my thoughts and inner turmoil. Plus his blatant honesty and vulnerability make it impossible for me to say no.

“Um, okay. Sure. Yeah, I can do that.”

“Brilliant.” He nods, indicating we need to cross the street. “Now catch me up on you.”