Page 1 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

one

. . .

Elle

I hatewhen my mother is right.

The only thing worse than when she is right, is when she’s around to see how right she is. And by see, I mean gloat.

Never leave the house wearing something you don’t want to be seen in, Elle.

Put on lipstick, Elle. You look like death without it.

Failure to do so puts one at a disadvantage. And as far as my mother is concerned, there is nothing so perilous as to be at a disadvantage. But as I’ve told her several times over the past few years when she’s forced these pearls of wisdom down my throat, ninety-eight times out of a hundred, I don’t give a fuck what people see me in.

With two exceptions:

a) Her. Obviously. Enough said there.

b) Noah Grant—baby daddy, ex-husband, love of my life, best sex I’ve ever had (and probably ever will)—who left me and our teen twins over two years ago to play cops and robbers witha South American drug cartel. Twenty-eight months since he broke our hearts.

One hundred and twenty-three weeks since I’ve had a cock inside me that wasn’t battery operated, not that I’m counting

Okay, fine—I’m counting.

Something I planned on changing tonight when I have sex with my almost-boyfriend, Jake. Which is why I’m at the store. Mostly. I need a few things for the Santa Luna Small Business Association (SLSBA) I’m hosting at my house this morning. And getting the rest of what I need for a kick-ass date-night charcuterie board; plus, wine and condoms.

And since the odds of running into my mother or Noah at my local grocer at this early hour on a Monday morning are less than zero, I left the house in a disadvantaged state.

Only to discover my mother was right.

Because he’s here.

Noah. At the bakery counter. Laughing with the woman in the red apron like they just solved a pastry-based cold case.

I drop into a crouch behind a display of mangoes before my brain catches up.

Okay. Don’t panic.

I’m in public. Wearing leggings, an old Nirvana concert t-shirt of Noah’s, and have dirty hair in a messy bun. Not exactly the jaw-dropping movie-montage moment I’d envisioned when I saw him again. But still, I’m in control. I have this handled.

I ease my tragically uncooperative cart—screechy wheel and all—along the edge of the display and start to duck-walk toward the organic herbs.

That’s when it happens.

A flash of pink tulle shoots past me. A toddler, maybe, beelines for the pickle display, chubby hand wobbling the bottom row so the jars clink in warning. The mom’s back isturned. My brain says I should probably stop that kid, but my feet… don’t move.

“Oh, no you don’t.”

The voice comes from behind me—low, commanding, and so instantly familiar that my stomach does this weird elevator drop.

Noah moves fast. One second, he’s at the bakery counter. The next, he’s got the kid scooped up in his free hand and planted safely in the cart like he’s been rescuing civilians in grocery stores his whole life. The jars rattle dangerously but stay put.

The mom whirls as the kid settles back into the cart, realizing what just happened. She thanks Noah repeatedly, like he just single-handedly prevented the Great Pickle Massacre of Santa Luna, relief pouring off her in waves.

The kid blinks up at him, wide-eyed. “Cookies?” She points toward the bakery box in his free hand.

“I have donuts,” he says conspiratorially.