Page 15 of Accidentally Mine

And honestly, the furthest thing from my mind was shopping. The list my brain was ticking off was a little dirtier than heads of lettuce.

So, maybe I wasn’t as good a girl as I thought.

It was totally his fault.

After what felt like an interminably long time, I gathered some semblance of what I hoped my shopping list contained, and we went to the fifteen-items-or-less checkout line.

As we waited our turn, he scanned the magazines and newspapers in the racks.

I did too, hoping I wouldn’t see anything more about the Markin case.

The man at the checkout rang my order up, but before I could pull out my cash, Brent swiped his card.

“Hey!”

He had a wicked, devious glimmer in his eyes. “I told you I wanted to buy you dinner.”

I lifted my chin. “And you always get your way?”

The grin grew wider. “Well, my way is usually best.”

I glared at him as the cashier handed him the receipt. Driving me was one thing, but I couldn’t let this go too far. If I entangled myself with another man—especially now—it could turn out to be very, very dicey. “I’m not letting you pay for my groceries.”

He stuck his card in his wallet. “Already done.”

The elderly lady behind us had begun to place her purchases onto the conveyor. She gave him a flirty wink from beneath her granny glasses. “He can pay for mine.”

The way she was checking him out broke my exasperation, and I couldn’t help but smile. She actually licked her lips and eyed him like a piece of meat in the butcher’s case. Were all older ladies in this town horny?

I turned back to him. Tiptoeing, I tried to glimpse the receipt total so I could pay him back. I reached into my wallet and pulled out a few twenties, shoving them at him, but he stepped away from me, plunging his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

“Your money’s no good here. What did I tell you about stubbornness?”

My gaze dropped to the tan commercial tile floor, embarrassed. I couldn’t let him pay for my groceries. I barely knew him. And the last thing I wanted to do was be in debt to a man.

He leaned over and whispered, “You’re sexy when you say no. But I think you’d be even sexier if you’d just say yes, for once.”

The low rumble of his voice just about seeped into my every pore. I couldn’t help but relax into it, wanting to bathe in it…for about a split second. Then I stiffened. “But—”

“Relax. It isn’t a marriage proposal. It’s just groceries.” He reached for the bags. “Come on. Be a rebel, Rebel .”

Right. Stop overreacting, Rebecca, I scolded myself. It’s a nice gesture. But nice gestures led to first dates, which led to kisses, which led to losing my heart to him, which led to…entrapment.

I frowned and went to pick up three of the recyclable grocery bags I’d brought with me that were now stuffed full.

He reached over and took two of them, threading his hand through the handles.

To my surprise, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.

“For the lady’s order,” he said, winking at the old biddy as he laid the bill down on the counter.

She beamed at him while my poor, wounded heart loosened just a little from its shackles.

He strode to the automatic doors, me at his heels, trying to wipe the obvious admiration and glee off my face. Right then, as impossible as it was, I had this need to stay with him. Bring him home. Have his babies.

What an idiot you are, Rebecca. You barely know him! You’d think a girl would learn!

“Young man!” the old woman called to him, and Brent halted as the doors parted for us to exit.

“I want to thank you properly.” Scurrying over to us, she didn’t stop until she was toe to toe with Brent.

He was at least two feet taller than her, so he stooped, clearly expecting her to hug him.

Instead, she pulled his head down and kissed him smack on the lips.

“Thank you. That was such a nice thing you did.”

“No problem at all, ma’am,” he said, untangling her hands from behind his neck. “Can we drop you somewhere?”

“Oh, no. I’m just in the apartments next door but thank you again.”

“Have a good day.”

Ernest had popped the trunk, so I started to empty my bags into the cavernous space. The old lady pushed her cart down the concrete indention in the curb, elbowing me as she passed. “Hold on to that one, sweetie. He’s a keeper,” she said, not quietly enough.

As she wheeled her cart away, Brent appeared next to me and closed the trunk. “Apparently, I’m a keeper,” he murmured, scratching endearingly at the back of his neck.

“So I’ve been told.” I laughed, throwing my head back like I hadn’t done in ages.

We got back into the car, and Ernest said in a thick Boston accent, “Where to now? Packies for some beer?” The last word came out like behr .

It reminded me so much of my dad that my heart hurt.

My father was definitely a pahk tha cah kind of talker too.

I’d missed that so much. I hesitated. I was still in an emotional state about losing Dad, especially after not seeing him for so much time, and now I was worried whether I was trusting where I shouldn’t.

Suddenly uncomfortable, I said, “If you want, you can really just take me to the T station. I’m sure you have things to do.”

For a strange second, Brent looked at Ernest with a question in his eyes, like he couldn’t remember if he had things to do.

But Ernest just snickered. “Like what? When you let him go, he’ll just go back to his bachelor pad, put on his smoking jacket, and continue his life of leisure. Let the boy help you.”

I raised an eyebrow at him, and turned to Brent, who wore a vague smirk of humiliation on his face. “How very Hugh Hefner of you.”

“Minus the broads,” Ernest added. “So not very Hugh Heffner at all, I’d say. The guy is a bit of a stiff, but he is a wicked sweet gentleman.”

“Thanks,” Brent mumbled, crossing his arms, then added under his breath, “pisser.”

“Where to?” Ernest asked.

I laughed and realized I hadn’t laughed this much in one day since I left Boston.

The address was on the tip of my tongue, but I held back.

Pulling myself together, I sighed and looked him in the eye.

“Look, Brent. I really appreciate this. But I can’t let you come to my house.

First of all, I have no idea who you are.

Second, my aunt would probably lock you in a closet and never let you leave. ”

“Ah. The porn addict.” He shot me a look. “How old is your aunt?”

“Sixty-four.”

He let out a smooth, rumbling laugh. “What about me makes you think I can’t take care of myself in the company of a sixty-four-year-old woman?”

“Because that old lady over there charmed you hook, line, and sinker. And she’s nothing compared to my auntie.”

His eyes glimmered. “Porn addict. Takes a keen interest in younger men. I think I’ve got to meet this woman. We might be a match made in heaven.”

“I hope you like the inside of a closet,” I mumbled.

“Bring it,” he said, rubbing his hands together, ready for the challenge.

Ernest was still standing on the street outside the grocery, waiting for an address. Finally, I gave in and told him.

“Ah. A Southie girl,” Ernest called fondly as he opened the door for us, and we climbed in. “Wicked pissa. I’m a Southie boy. Born and raised.”

“Couldn’t tell from the accent.” They were probably about the same age, so I said, “You might know my aunt. Marie Monroe. She was born and raised there too.”

His lips moved in the frame of the rearview mirror as he put on his seatbelt. “I do not. But should I? Is she hot? And did you say she has a thing for porn? I like her already.”

My eyes widened as Brent covered his mouth with his head before reaching over the seat and give Ernest a light smack on the back of the head. “Cease with the comments. Just drive.” Ernest seemed less like Brent’s employee and more like his dirty old grandpa. “Don’t mind him,” Brent muttered to me.

We drove under the highway viaducts and over the trainyard, into South Boston, then down Broadway.

I could tell that Ernest was, indeed, a Southie boy, because he didn’t need directions or GPS.

We pulled up to Aunt Marie’s house on the narrow street, and of course, there was no parking.

I hopped out before anyone could get the door for me and went to the trunk.

Before I could take the bags out, Brent was there, ready to help. A moment later, Ernest appeared too. I held out my hands. “Guys. Thanks. But I can handle it from here.”

The two exchanged a look and proceeded to ignore me, stepping around me like I wasn’t even there. They lifted my bags from the trunk and started up the narrow, crumbling path to my aunt’s old brick house.

As they approached the front door, it swung open.

And there was my aunt, holding an old hunting rifle, a menacing look on her face.

“Oh, my god, Auntie!” I shouted, taking a step back.

“You didn’t say she’d be armed,” Brent said, a corner of his mouth twisting up in amusement.

“I didn’t even know she had a rifle.” I squeezed past them, threw open the screen door, and plucked it from her hands.

It was rusty, probably not loaded. I thought her ex might have been a hunter, but that was over twenty years ago.

“Aunt Marie. Where did you get this? These people are friends. They helped me shop for our dinner.”

Aunt Marie looked over Brent from his dark hair to his gleaming shoes, her eyes shining just as brightly. “Oh, my. Please tell me he’s on the menu,” she breathed out like a sex kitten.

I clapped a hand over my face, mortified.

Then her eyes trailed over to Ernest. “Well, hello to you,” she said in a husky voice, reaching her hand out to him like this was the Victorian age and she wanted him to kiss it.

Oh, my god. This was not really happening.

Ernest grinned, and eyes never leaving hers, bent low and dropped a very sweet kiss on the back of her hand. “You must be Marie.” What a charmer.