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luca

I ’m early… again.

Not like wildly early—but early enough to overthink what kind of grocery cart sends the right message to a woman I’m trying to impress.

Full-size cart? Too committed. Too eager.

Hands only? Psychopath.

Basket? Effortless.

I station myself in aisle seven by the beans, obviously, because where else would I be? Not to mention, for funsies I’ve already arranged the Bush’s cans in a little pyramid; I am a grown man with zero chill and a decent sense of humor.

Also? I kind of want her to laugh when she finds me.

I check my phone.

No new texts.

I’ve scrolled up through our messages three times now. Not because I’m obsessed—duh. No. I keep scrolling because I can’t get the “ You did NOT tell me you fucked that guy! God I am so jealous—I wasn’t joking when I said there was a ghost in my vagina,” out of my brain.

Nova is chaos. Beautiful, sexy chaos.

I lean against the shelf, subtly rearranging the chickpeas and kidney beans one more time like I work here, as if that will steady my nerves as an elderly woman turns into the aisle. She gives me the kind of side-eye typically reserved for men who loiter too close to the item she needs.

Not that I blame her. And not to brag, but have I mentioned I’m massive?

“Afternoon, ma’am,” I say as if I’m totally normal, my grin broadcasting, Not a creep !

She nods suspiciously and pushes her cart past me, clutching the handles of her cart to steady herself, whizzing past as quickly as her little legs can carry her. If I saw me in this aisle, I’d pivot too. There’s only so much a smile can do when you’re 6’3 and built for hockey.

I go back to rearranging the shelves. Slight tilt to the left for symmetry. Bush’s Best in the center—premium bean energy. I’m mid-adjustment when I feel it.

Like a sixth sense.

Like a shift in the atmosphere.

Like someone just turned the dial on my instincts to ‘high.’

She’s here.

Finally!

Curves and confidence, she struts toward me in tight denim, sleeves pushed up on a cropped bright green jacket. The collar is popped, with a black tank layered beneath I can see is clinging to her body like it was custom-fitted.

The neckline dips low.

When I try not to lower my gaze, I fail tremendously.

Cleavage for days.

Tan tits and smooth skin …

I glance away for half a second, purely for survival purposes, before my eyes drag right back like they’ve been rewired. Like there’s a magnet in her chest and my dignity never stood a chance.

I feel every muscle in my body lock up—not in fear, but in restraint . Like if I breathe wrong, she’ll disappear. Like if I so much as blink, I’ll miss something.

Fuck.

I’m done for.

I have rearranged beans for this woman.

I would rearrange my whole damn life.

She steps closer…

Closer still.

I can smell her perfume now, her eyes flicker to my right, clocking the bean pyramid. The Bush’s Best centerpiece. The humble little love monument I built like an idiot with a crush and a half hour to kill.

Her pink glossy lips twitch. “Nice beans.”

“I can’t believe you actually showed up,” I reply, cause part of me thought she might cancel.

She smiles at me, abashed. “Yeah. Sorry I’m late. I, uh—had to change. Twice.”

I glance down at the tank top, then back up at her face, appreciating her effort—and the effects.

“Worth it.”

She tugs on the edge of her jacket like it’ll somehow hide the very thing she purposely chose to wear.

“I almost bailed. I’m…” she admits, shuffling on her heels. “Pretty embarrassed about the text messages.”

What, those? Pfft.

What guy cares about her haunted vagina? If hers has cobwebs, that only makes me all that more curious.

“Why?” I ask, stepping just a little closer. “It was very informative.” Nod seriously. “I had no idea ghost vaginas were a thing.”

She groans, hiding her face in one hand. “Please don’t say ghost vagina out loud.”

“Can I whisper it?”

She covers her face with her hands. “ No .”

Hmmm .

Nova peeks at me between her fingers, enough for me to catch the edges of a reluctant smile. Her cheeks are still pink, but the embarrassment has mostly melted into something else now—something softer, lighter.

“Anyway,” she says by way of trying to change the subject. “It wasn’t supposed to be a whole thing.”

“It’s a great thing,” I announce. “But now I have several follow-up questions. Do the ghosts pay rent? Do they knock before entering?”

Her palm barely connects with my bicep, but she leaves it there for a second too long.

Not that I mind.

“Knock it off,” her mouth is saying while her hand gives my muscles a light squeeze before dropping her hand from my arm and walking off—quickly, as if putting physical distance between us will help.

I follow.

“Are they friendly ghosts?” I muse to her back, eyes on her ass. “Sexy ghosts? Polite? Do they leave love notes?”

She tosses a glance over her shoulder, eyes narrowed, lips fighting a smile. “You’re obnoxious.”

Am I?

Nova turns the corner into the pasta aisle, and I follow like a guy entranced by her charm, my curiosity, and the very real possibility that I’d watch this woman shop for canned tomatoes for the rest of my life if it meant she’d keep throwing daggers at me over her shoulder like that.

I catch up as she’s reaching for a box of rigatoni on a high shelf, standing on her toes to grab it. Her jacket lifts and I catch a peek of skin above her waistband—just a sliver, but it’s fatal .

Curve of her back.

Slim waist.

Birthmark above her waistband.

“Is this all it takes to turn you on?” Nova laughs.

“Apparently. ”

Nova recovers with a shaky laugh, but there’s a flush crawling up her throat now, blooming across her cheeks like maybe she’s feeling the heat, too.

“So I was thinking…” she begins, sliding the box back into position.

“Yeah?”

We wander farther down the aisle, side by side now. Her shoulder bumps mine lightly as she reaches for a jar of sauce, turning it to study the nutritional content.

She sets it down. Turns to face me. “That we pick out ingredients and go back to my place. To cook ?”

Twist my arm.

“Totally. I’m starving already.”

Nova bites her lip and studies the shelves, tapping her forefinger in the center of her chin.

“What about…” she muses, scanning rows of jars and boxes and grabbing hold of spaghetti. “You can’t go wrong with carbonara. It’s delicious, it's simple—it has got bacon.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Everyone does pasta. It’s the food equivalent of sweatpants.”

She laughs at how dumb I sound. “Oh, I’m sorry—did you want to sous-vide something tonight, Chef?”

I laugh, too. “No, I just think we can do better than noodles.” I think for a few moments. “I vote creamy lemon chicken. Thoughts?”

“Ooh. With roasted fingerling potatoes?” she asks, eyes lighting up.

“One thousand percent. And asparagus because we’re classy.”

We make our way to the veggie aisle, where the produce is glowing under too-bright lights, and mist curls off the lettuce like we’ve stepped into a rainforest. Nova heads straight for the potatoes, lifting a bag of fingerlings with the reverence of someone who’s watched way too many cooking shows.

“These good?” she asks, holding them up .

“Perfect.”

She tosses the potatoes into the cart and heads for the asparagus, fingers grazing stalks like she’s testing for freshness, every touch has me staring at her hands.

Fingernails.

Her hands are delicate.

Not hard and calloused like mine, and I wonder how they’d feel grazing my stomach…or straying into the waistband of my boxers…

She catches me looking. “You gonna help or just stand there?”

I blink at her. “Sorry.”

“You’re acting weird,” she says, scooching around me to access the giant display of lemons. “Stop it.”

I step aside—barely—my pulse somewhere in my ears as she leans in to grab a lemon. Her boobs brush my arm, intentional or maybe completely accidental I do not know— I swear something short-circuits in my brain anyway.

She straightens slowly, palming the lemon over in her hand before glancing up at me. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like this is your first time being in a grocery store. This is a date—you should act like it.”

I swallow. Hard. “I am acting like it. I’m just—admiring how damn good you look next to citrus.”

“Hmph.” She drops the lemon into the cart and bumps her hip into mine again. “Flattery will get you everywhere. Now get it together, Ace. We still need garlic, chicken, and a bottle of wine.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

And just like that, we’re off again , side by side. The air between us charged with all the things we’re both already imagining but not willing to say out loud.

God damn this is fun…

We weave through the rest of the produce aisle like we’ve done this a hundred times before, grabbing what we need in an easy rhythm—shallots, garlic, a sprig of rosemary that she holds to her nose and inhales.

“Ahhh…” So good.

Her hand brushes mine when we reach for the same bottle of red wine; neither of us moves. We just stand here, holding the bottle together like a romantic game of tug-of-war.

“You like red?” I ask.

“I like what red does to people,” she whispers, her breath skimming my jaw.

My dick tingles, her breathy comment hitting me square in the chest when she doesn’t let go right away. Instead, her thumb traces the neck of the bottle—slow, deliberate—brushing my knuckles in the process. Her eyes flick up to mine, daring me to react.

I take the bottle from her, careful not to break the stare, and place it in the cart.

The rest in a blur—chicken, butter, a wedge of Parmesan.

When I reach past her to inspect the label on a carton of cream, my chest presses lightly into her back. Nova doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

If anything, she shifts just slightly and her ass grazes my pelvis. Wiggles, even. A barely-there grind that’s more suggestion than statement.

It shortens my breath.

“Stop it,” I mutter without conviction.

I’m weak.

So, so weak.

Nova bends to grab the carton of cream from a lower shelf in the refrigerator aisle and falters, my hand finds her waist to steady her.

Thumbs graze the bare skin where her tank rides up. Pause there, rubbing slow, deliberate circles along the dip of her waist. Up. Down. The skin there is soft, warm—so much softer than mine.

She stands, straightening with the cream in her hand.

Turns slowly.

Her face is close.

Real fuckin close.

So close I can count the few freckles on the bridge of her nose.

Everything feels like foreplay now…

“Thanks,” her mouth seems to say.

Nova leans closer, tits brushing against my chest, lips pressing along my jawline, a whisper of a touch that sets everything inside me on fire.

We’re in the grocery store for fuck’s sake—it’s not supposed to be arousing. Is it?