Page 9 of Apple of My Eye
I’ve always enjoyed driving through Carnation. The roads are two-laned and dusty, the town is only about five stoplights long, and there are rolling hills throughout. I often feel like we’re stuck in the 1950s, but I don’t mind it.
I coast to a stop in the parking lot of Hal’s General Store and hop out.
I check the clock, plenty of time to grab a latte from the café across the street after I shop.
Amie’s at the checkout when I walk through the doors.
She waves, her red hair catching the sunlight.
She started working at Hal’s after we graduated and seems to relish her position as the town’s reigning gossip queen.
When I was home in the winter she caught me up on all the happenings while I’d been away.
As long as Amie’s working the checkout, I’ll never have to attend a high-school reunion.
I go on autopilot through the store, checking things off my list seamlessly until I get to the toiletry aisle.
I stop short in front of the razors, wondering if I should pull out my phone to calculate which value pack is the cheapest or just do it mentally.
I’m juggling about three packs in my hand when I see movement in my peripherals.
My hallucination is here. But under the fluorescent grocery store lights he’s terrifyingly real.
His hair is perfectly mussed and doesn’t move an inch when he squats down to pick up a can off the bottom shelf.
I can’t help but notice the way his butt fills out his jeans, firm and strong.
But something about his physique doesn’t match with the rest of him.
His hair is so neat, and his face is clean-shaven.
His hands are delicate. He doesn’t usually work on a farm, that much is clear.
I bite my lip, wondering if I should introduce myself to the Parkers’ secret weapon when he turns to look at me, catching me staring and making the most intimate eye contact I’ve ever had with anybody, including the time Shari made me play a game where we stared into each other’s eyes for four minutes, just to find out if we were really supposed to be best friends (if the test is reliable, we weren’t, because we burst out laughing after a minute).
But this man’s gaze holds me captive, rooting my feet to the floor.
The air is vibrating between us. His eyes are a rich brown, framed by thick lashes.
His cheekbones cut his face perfectly, drawing my gaze to his full lips.
You could cut the tension in here with a knife , I think, only to realize I’m holding three razors in one hand and have stopped mid-reach for the next option.
As fast as I can I drop the razors into my cart and duck out of the aisle, my heart hammering in my chest. I can feel my blush creeping up to my hairline.
I pull out my phone to text Lily but then I think better of it.
What would I even say? So actually I wasn’t hallucinating and I’ve FINALLY found someone I think is attractive but he’s helping the Parkers so I’m supposed to hate him?
? I slide my phone back in my pocket. Better to wait. We haven’t even spoken.
The apples are my last stop. I am so focused on my task at hand (being picky about apples comes with the territory) that I don’t notice he’s approached me until it’s too late.
‘How do you like them apples?’ he asks in a low voice.
An invitation of humor edges his question, and I feel for a moment like he’s inviting me to share in a secret, illicit game with him.
But then Amie’s voice rings out over the loudspeaker, reminding shoppers that this Friday there’s a canned foods drive, and my mind crashes into reality.
What did he just say to me? I think, panic rising in my chest. Isn’t ‘How do you like them apples?’ an expression about a woman’s tits?
Why do attractive men think they can get away with anything?
If he’s introducing himself to me with a line this racy, no wonder he’s been the center of the book club’s imaginary small-town smut fairy tale.
I huff a puff of air towards the apples as I wheel around to face him, preparing to dress him down at the impertinence of hitting on someone who’s clearly in the middle of grocery shopping.
But being so close to him takes my breath away completely.
He’s devastatingly handsome in the most endearing way I’ve ever seen.
His hair is so lush I want to run my hands through it.
I haven’t felt this disarmed by anyone since .
.?. ever. He’s smiling at me with an open face, eyes wide, like he’s just asked if I want to go pick flowers.
‘What?’ is all I manage to squeak out, my anger dissolving faster than sugar in sweet tea.
His eyelashes flutter and his eyes get wider.
He steps back from me like I’m a hot potato and drops the apple he’s holding.
He bends to pick it up and while his attention is elsewhere, I scurry to the cash register.
There are so many conflicting thoughts pinging back and forth in my brain that I can’t focus.
He calls something after me softly, but I’m already walking towards the checkout and decide it’s better to pretend I don’t hear.
I’m still thinking about his comment when Amie asks me when I got back into town. I glance down at my breasts, they’re perfectly average. Not too big, not too small. I guess I like them just fine. Not that he ever needs to know that.