Page 7

Chapter six

The Rules

P oppy sighed in relief when she had scanned the last of her coupons and her final total flashed on the self-check screen.

She’d lost track of her mental addition at least three times during the shopping trip and had worried she’d go way over budget, but somehow, she’d managed to squeak by with fifteen dollars to spare.

No thanks to Rai, who was distraction personified.

She quelled that unfair thought instantly, stealing a glance in his direction.

He’d done what he’d promised, pushing the cart and fetching the occasional object, gravely listening when she talked out her ridiculously mundane decisions, even gleefully scanning her purchases at the self-check, though she’d needed to take over the bagging when he’d almost dropped the canned tuna on top of the bread.

Once she’d started the payment process, he’d put the cart away at her request and wandered over to the automatic door, which he was now watching intently—or no, he was looking at the walls and floor around the door, which was odd, but also weirdly cute.

He’d looked at everything in the store in that same fascinated way, like the freezers and the vegetable sprayers and the fluorescent lights hanging from the high ceiling were a play being put on for his amusement.

It wasn’t his fault that he was so very pretty.

That Poppy would be in the middle of multiplying eighty-eight cents by five and adding it to the running total in her head and carry the five and subtract the fifty-cent coupon…

and then he’d turn to her with that wide grin—or worse, that sly sidelong through-the-lashes glance—and she’d lose every number out of her head and need to start over, cheeks burning.

She’d given up on the math entirely when they’d been in the produce section and he’d sauntered over to the peaches, hefting one and giving her a sultry smolder that would have made Fabio hang up his loincloth in defeat.

All he’d said was how many do you wish? But he’d said it in a voice like he was offering a hell of a lot more than a peach, like there was a new sex-worker website named OnlyFruits and he was their spokesman, and it was a good thing his shirt had dried to opacity by then or she might have actually caught on fire, right there next to the plumcots.

As it was, she’d bought two. Far be it from her to resist an amazing advertising pitch.

She gathered her bags, wincing as she distributed the weight, and joined Rai at the door. He turned with a smile, then his brow furrowed. “Am I not to bear your burdens?”

Poppy glanced around. They were blocking the door, and there were already two shoppers with full carts heading their way. “Let’s talk outside.”

The sun had finished setting, and the sky was clear above, though there were still distant lightning flashes to the east. Poppy led Rai off to the side of the doors, past the propane tanks and water dispenser, and stopped in front of one of the vacant suites of the strip mall.

She set her bags on the cement and turned to him.

His frown had lightened; now he looked more confused.

Himbo energy, she thought, stifling a laugh.

Pure of heart, strong of arm, dumb of ass.

Out loud, she said, “I appreciate your keeping me company tonight, Rai. It was a lot of fun.” She held out her hand for a shake.

He took it, but instead of a businesslike clasp, he tucked his fingers under hers and drew her hand upward, gazing at her knuckles. “You are saying goodbye.” It wasn’t a question.

“Well, it’s not raining anymore.”

He cast a sulky glare at the cloudless sky, for all the world like a toddler about to throw a tantrum. “It might rain again.” There was a distant boom of thunder, as if in punctuation. “And you have far to walk.” He was still holding her hand, though lightly. She could pull it away easily .

She didn’t. “Don’t you? I mean, I don’t know where you’re staying, but…

” She gestured vaguely with the hand he wasn’t holding.

There were dozens of hotels of every caliber near the university and downtown, but she had no idea whether his company was the sort to shell out for four-star accommodations or make him settle for a cheapo motel.

“It is not far,” he said, meeting her gaze again, and she had to be imagining things, because for a moment, just a moment, she thought she saw lightning crackle in his eyes. “I would rather walk with you. And your bags are heavy. I can carry them, and we can speak more.”

Poppy hesitated, weighing common sense against—if she were totally honest—what she really, really wanted.

If Rai were a creeper, if he was playing some deep game despite not even using a phone connection to get her on the hook, then letting him see where she lived would be incredibly stupid.

Except, of course, if that were the case, he wouldn’t need to help with her groceries; it would be easy for him to follow her at a distance without her knowing, able to not just find out where she lived but even to attack her while she was all loaded with canned goods.

So if she was worried about safety, that ship had already sailed.

And meanwhile, he was holding her hand like a precious baby bird, looking at her as if she were someone special. Not an overworked, underpaid transcriptionist, an artist who never got to paint and didn’t sell anything when she did. Like her company was something he’d traveled the world to find.

Plus, she hadn’t been kidding about the himbo energy.

Maybe even orange cat energy—chaotic and playful, sensual and a little wicked, curious about everything—if he weren’t so very witty and clearly intelligent under his wide-eyed enthusiasm.

If there was one thing she’d learned from TikTok it was that orange boy cats were deeply stupid.

Well, and that she had zero makeup game. But she’d already known that.

Finally, she sighed. “You must be fantastic at selling toilet paper.” Not that he’d needed to say anything to convince her. He just had to exist, and the clients probably threw money at him. In a business-meeting-sales-representative kind of way.

His eyebrows shot up. “I am.”

“And modest, too.”

“Very.” He smirked and bent forward. Poppy watched in dizzy fascination as he actually brushed his lips across her knuckles, the brief contact sending tingles all the way up her arm.

“Holy shit,” she muttered as he released her hand and turned away, utterly casual.

“What?” He paused in collecting her bags to regard her curiously .

“You just… Is that what people do in Brazil?”

“It is a simple courtesy.” His eyes narrowed, though, a wicked light gleaming in them. “Shall I demonstrate again?”

Yes, please. “That’s not necessary. I just…” She laughed nervously, resisting the urge to cradle her hand to her chest. “Hang on a sec. If you’re going to walk me home, we need to set some ground rules.”

His eyes flickered down to the cement walkway, then back to her face, serious as a heart attack. “All right.”

“First of all…” She bolstered herself with a deep breath. “When we get there, you can’t come in. Or at least not right away. My mom… I need to talk to my mom before I decide. If it’s not a good night, then you need to leave the bags on the porch. Is that okay?”

He looked out and up at the sky. “It is a lovely night.”

“That’s not what I mean. Just… Let me check first.”

“Very well. Is that the only rule?”

That was the big one, but she knew she should have more.

“Um, you didn’t say how long you’re going to be in town, but the same goes for later.

You can’t just stop by. I need to know ahead of time, so a call or a text.

” She was assuming a lot, to think he might even want to, but she should play it safe.

“As I said, I do not text.”

“But you have a phone, right?”

“I do not.”

That made zero sense. “So how do you work? Or travel? Everybody has a phone.”

He shrugged. “I go where I go.”

Definitely an orange cat. “Okay. The third rule is—”

“What should I do?”

“What?”

“If I wish to visit, what should I do?”

She gaped at him for a long moment. “I guess… Um, there’s a guest house. You can knock there first. Even if I’m with my mom, I’ll hear that.”

He nodded, looking pleased. “And the third rule?”

Third rule. She needed a third rule… Oh. There it was. Not technically a rule, but… “The third rule is, you have to let me take your picture.”

He looked down at himself, patting his chest and stomach. “I do not have a picture. ”

“With my phone,” she clarified, rolling her eyes. Lord, he was literal. “I am going to take your picture, and I’m going to text it to my friend with your name, and…” She did not complete the thought out loud. That way if you turn out to be a serial killer, they know who to look for.

Not that she had anyone to send it to. Not after Brendan had gone scorched earth on their mutual friends group back in Illinois. But Rai didn’t know that.

“Ah,” he said, though he still looked confused. But he didn’t refuse, which was a point in the not-a-serial-killer column.

She pulled her phone from her purse and aimed it at him. “Say cheese.”

“Cheese? Did you forget to purchase—”

“No.” She bit her lip. “I mean smile.”

He did, one of those blinding wide smiles that she’d found impossible to draw; she tapped the app a few times, shifting to get a couple of angles.

The orange parking lot light was terrible, making his skin and eye color look off and forcing the resolution low, but Rai’s smile was radiant even in the midst of that.

“There.” She opened her memo app. “Is Rai R-A-I? Or…”

“Yes.”

“And your last name?”

He looked at her blankly for a moment, then nodded. “Storm.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Your last name is Storm. Rai Storm. R-A-I Storm .”

“It is.”

“Please tell me your middle name isn’t Nigel or Norman.” Especially not Norman. That would be downright spooky.

“It is not.” He lifted his chin to a challenging angle. “Is my name a problem?”

“No, not a problem.” Though possibly a point in the definitely-a-serial-killer column, because if ever a name was faker than fake… “Unless there’s a Mrs. Storm out there. One that’s not your mother.”

He tilted his head, looking smug. “What if I have a grandmother?”

“Har de har har.” She bit her lip. Was it weird to even ask? But he’d kissed the back of her hand, touched her cheek. He’d definitely been flirting with her. “No wife?”

“I have no wife,” he confirmed.

“Okay. Because that’s…rule number four. For me, I mean. What you do is your business, but I… It would be awkward for me.”

“Would it? ”

She focused on her phone, pretending she hadn’t put a neon sign over her head declaring her interest. “Let me just send this,” she lied.

“May I watch? I have never seen a text occur.” He approached her, leaning in to look at her screen.

“Whoops, already sent!” She hastily closed out her memos.

“Um, want to see the picture?” She opened the camera app, tapping on the gallery icon.

He was close enough she could smell his cologne or deodorant or whatever it was again, and after the generic food and disinfectant smells of the supermarket, it was twice as potent.

He stared at the picture for a long time. “That is how I look?”

“Yes?”

“Interesting.” He raised his hand, fingers hovering over the touchscreen.

“Don’t worry, I won’t post it anywhere,” she squeaked, suddenly worried he was going to insist she delete it.

She was pretty sure he wasn’t a serial killer, but…

Well, now she could draw him right. And okay, if she were honest, she’d probably bring the photo out to moon over once in a while.

Her very pretty himbo orange-cat knight that she’d met once upon a rainstorm.

He stepped back, then went to collect her bags. “Are those all the rules?”

Rule five, don’t be a serial killer. “Yeah. Oh, um, let me carry some of those.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but he grudgingly let her take two of the lighter bags, and they set off across the parking lot under a clear, moonlit sky.