Page 6 of Gap Control (Lewiston Forge #3)

Chapter four

Mason

I liked the grocery store at night. Not late-late, not after ten, when the shelves were half-empty and the lights made everything look a little too bare. Just late enough that the after-work rush had thinned.

It wasn't far from my apartment—seven minutes if the light on Madison cooperated—and I always parked in the back, next to the loading dock, where no one ever looked twice. Not that anyone looked twice at me anywhere, usually. Until now.

I tugged the hood of my coat higher and grabbed a hand basket instead of a cart. Quieter. Easier to steer. I pulled up my list on my phone—clean, efficient, alphabetical by section—and started my circuit.

Frozen fruit. Plain yogurt. Protein water. Oat milk. Not because I liked it, but because it lasted forever and made me feel like I was doing something healthy. Almonds, toothpaste, and one of those overpriced cold brew bottles I'd pretend not to enjoy.

I moved with purpose. Eyes down. Shoulders back. No distractions.

In the store, I could breathe. There were no teammates throwing elbows or fans waving signs.

Only ambient music, half-stale air, and the satisfying rhythm of checking items off a list.

I paused in the dairy section, examining expiration dates, when a toddler two carts over dropped a cereal box and burst into tears. I winced.

The mom muttered an apology. I nodded once, politely.

Before the week of TJ and the hug and the internet's favorite accidental romance, it would've been a normal Thursday. Now, even here, next to the sour cream, I couldn't shake the feeling that someone might be watching.

I took a slow breath and reached for the yogurt with the latest date, tucked behind the front row. I liked the illusion of control.

That's when I heard it.

A clatter, a muttered curse, and the unmistakable sound of someone crashing into a pyramid of canned tomatoes.

Then a voice, low and familiar and way too cheerful for 8:37 p.m.

"Okay, those were not as secure as they looked."

I didn't turn around. I didn't have to.

The voice was unmistakable.

TJ Jameson had arrived at my sanctuary and was already talking to the tomatoes.

"Okay. In my defense, gravity started it."

I let out a quiet breath and reached for another container of yogurt. Same one I bought every week. Same brand. Same flavor. Dependable.

It would be rude to ignore him completely. I approached TJ, where he crouched on the tile, mango seltzer under one arm, while trying to steady a can of tomatoes with the other.

"Ryker," he said, like I was exactly who he'd hoped to see.

"What are you doing here?"

"Shopping." He stood and held up the mango seltzer like it explained everything. "Obviously."

I glanced at his basket. Frozen egg rolls. A king-size candy bar. Two bottles of protein water—one the color of antifreeze.

"You don't like seltzer."

"I don't dislike it." He looked at it and rubbed his chin. "Okay, I usually do. But this one's mango. I got curious."

"It's gonna taste like air that brushed past a mango once and got scared."

TJ blinked and laughed. "You tell jokes now? What's next, a spontaneous Insta reel?"

"I was hoping to get through this without being recognized."

He lowered his voice. "Did someone say something?"

"No. Just a couple of stares and slow-moving carts. Probably nothing."

TJ looked around. "I can take the next aisle."

"You don't have to."

"Didn't say I wanted to. Just that I can."

I let that sit for a second. "Just don't crash into anything else."

He raised one hand like he was swearing into office. "No sudden moves. No interpretive dance in frozen foods."

I started walking. He followed, falling into step like we did it every week.

"You're lucky I didn't bring a cart. I'm a hazard on turns."

"You're a hazard in general."

He grinned like I'd complimented him. "And yet they keep putting me on the power play."

I didn't answer. Not because I was annoyed, but because, for some reason, I didn't want to interrupt him. I wanted him to keep talking.

We passed a woman with a cart full of snacks and a toddler wearing a hockey beanie. She glanced at us and smiled.

I looked down and kept walking.

TJ waited until we turned into the cereal aisle before saying, gently, "Want me to give you space?"

"No. Just don't make a scene."

He held up the mango seltzer. "Too late."

Maybe I should've been annoyed, but I kept walking beside him.

We moved through the aisles in loose formation. I stuck to my list. TJ did not.

He stopped to grab a box of cereal that boasted "crunch clusters" and featured a cartoon bear wearing sunglasses. He dropped it into his basket with zero shame.

I looked at him.

"What? He's a cool bear."

I didn't respond, but I didn't look away either. There was something weirdly comforting about how TJ made decisions—like he was playing a game I didn't understand but was considering learning.

We turned the corner toward the freezer section, and I heard a soft click behind us—the unmistakable sound of a phone camera.

I didn't turn.

TJ did.

A kid—college-aged, probably—stood near the end of the aisle, phone in hand, trying very hard to pretend he hadn't just taken a picture of us standing a little too close to the frozen waffles.

TJ waved. "Hey, man."

The kid blushed and ducked around the corner.

TJ turned toward me. "Don't worry. He was more nervous than you are."

I didn't respond right away. My brain was already ten steps ahead—image, caption, speculation. What angle had the kid caught? How close had we looked?

TJ noticed. He touched my shoulder. "Hey, you want a minute?"

I nodded, and he gently steered us down the next aisle, past the pharmacy, and into the little alcove near the restrooms—flickering soda machine on one side, corkboard of lost pet flyers on the other.

I stood there for a moment, breathing.

TJ leaned against the wall, arms crossed, saying nothing.

I spoke first. "This was supposed to be neutral ground."

"I know."

"I don't want everything I do to be… visible."

"I get that."

"I don't think you do."

He watched me and didn't respond.

I looked at the vending machine, then down at the floor. My hands tightened around the basket handle.

"I've been careful for years." I raised my chin. "About who knows what. What I give away. What I let show."

"Okay."

"I agreed to this because it was temporary. Contained. I didn't sign up to have strangers measure how close we stand in front of the freezer case."

TJ nodded. "That's fair."

"So, ground rules."

He raised an eyebrow.

"No touching unless it's for the cameras. No surprises. No personal questions."

He blinked. "You think I'm gonna ask about your childhood trauma while we pick out protein bars?"

I didn't laugh. Not quite. But I was happy to know I didn't dampen his humor.

"You're hard to block out."

TJ let his arms hang loose at his sides. "I don't do that on purpose."

"Exactly."

He tilted his head. "That a compliment or a warning?"

"Both."

TJ gave me a long look, then pushed off the wall. "Noted. No ambushes. No closeness unless someone's watching us. Keep it neat."

I flinched. Not at the words—at how he said them. Like he was backing away.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," I said.

"I know. You're trying not to get hurt yourself."

We stood in silence for a second. I was about to say something—maybe even something real—when he spoke again.

"Want to hear about the time I set my ex's kitchen on fire with egg rolls?"

I stared at him.

"I mean it. Like, actual flames. Not metaphorical. There was a fire extinguisher involved, and a very judgmental cat."

Despite everything—despite the photo and feeling too seen—I laughed.

It surprised us both.

TJ grinned. "There it is."

"Don't get used to it."

"No promises."

We returned to the central aisle.

This time, I didn't walk quite as fast.

We finished the trip through the store with little talking.

I went back to my list. He wandered, adding items with no discernible logic—jalapeno kettle chips, a small container of pre-cut pineapple, a second candy bar that he claimed was "for Brady," which meant it absolutely wasn't.

Still, he kept pace.

At checkout, I moved toward the self-scan lanes. TJ nudged me toward the staffed one instead.

"Why?" I asked, eyeing the teenage cashier half-reading a paperback behind the register.

"So there's a witness when you inevitably pretend you don't know me."

He started unloading his basket onto the conveyor belt without waiting for an answer. I sighed and followed.

We checked out in tandem. The cashier didn't say anything and didn't blink at our combined pile of egg rolls, yogurt, and chaos. Maybe he didn't recognize us. Perhaps he didn't care.

TJ started to ramble again—about the pineapple, a new team jacket Monroe had ordered online that came two sizes too small, and whether Raging Kiwi was a flavor or a warning.

I paid in cash. TJ tapped his phone. He whistled off-key while we bagged.

Out in the parking lot, the cold was crisp and biting, the kind that settled in the joints. My breath clouded in front of me as I reached my car.

TJ stopped beside me. He didn't say anything right away. Just handed me my bag.

Then, he reached into his bag and pulled out a protein bar. It was the kind I always bought. The brand I didn't remember him grabbing.

He held it out.

I hesitated.

"You look like you've had a day. This one's on me."

It was a small thing. A stupid thing, but I took it.

"Thanks."

He nodded, but he didn't move.

For a second, it felt like something might be about to happen. Nothing big. Just one of those small moments people look back on when they're trying to figure out where it all started.

He smiled—wide, easy, too much—and said, "I'll save the egg roll story for next time."

I shook my head and turned to unlock my car.

He walked off without waiting for a goodbye.

Inside, I sat for a minute, keys in hand, fingers curled around the steering wheel.

The protein bar sat on the passenger seat. I didn't open it.

I pulled out my phone.

Typed: Thanks for not pushing tonight.

Deleted it.

Typed again: See you tomorrow.

My thumb hovered over send for a long moment. Then I deleted that, too.

Instead:

Mason: The egg roll story better be worth it.

I sent it before I could change my mind.

Three dots appeared immediately. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

TJ: Fair warning: You'll probably laugh again.

I stared at the message and then glanced in my rearview mirror.

TJ's car was still there, brake lights glowing red in the dark. He was looking back at me, too.

We sat there, two guys in separate cars, caught in the act of actually wanting to keep talking.

I started my engine first, but I saved his message before I drove away.