Page 2 of (My Accidental) Killer Summer

“I have one with sprinkles?” She reaches for the box, just as unabashed in her pursuit of the sweets as she was with pickle jars.

“I don’t have any with sprinkles,” Noah says, lifting the box lid to show her.

“Kelsey where are your manners?” her mother admonishes.

Noah leans towards the girl and whispers, “These are for some very hungry police officers.”

“Oh,” she says, obviously disappointed.

“And none of them like sprinkles. Silly, huh?”

The girl nods her head vigorously. “Very.”

Of course he’d still be good at all of this. Still be the guy who makes dangerous things look easy and heroics look casual. Still the guy who connects just as easily with kids as he does adults. Like he hasn’t missed a single beat. Like he hasn’t been gone for years.

And—dammit—of course my chest goes tight, watching from my crouch in the herbs, pretending parsley is suddenly fascinating, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with the rescue and everything to do with him.

That hero streak was always my kryptonite. Right up there with his hands and the way he says my name?—

Then, too soon, too suddenly, he turns as though sensing my presence. His gaze catches mine across the aisle. It hits like a shot of whiskey—warm, dizzying, and way too much.

“Elle.” His voice dips low, like it’s both a greeting and a plea. He closes the space between us in two steps. “Wow… I—wasn’t expecting…” He stops, shakes his head. “Hi.” His smile is crooked, tentative—as if he’s not sure he has the right to use it on me anymore.

And just like that, any plans I had for seducing my almost-boyfriend tonight evaporate like spilled vodka on hot asphalt.

“Noah.” I stand up too fast, almost launching the parsley into orbit. “Hi,” I manage, though my voice comes out a little too high, like I’ve been caught shoplifting.

Up close, he looks… older. Not in a bad way—God, not in a bad way—but in the life-happened-to-me kind of way. There’s stubble along his jaw, lines fanning from the corners of his eyes. He smells like soap and rain and something I used to bury my face in until I forgot what was bothering me.

And now he’s just standing there looking at me as though I’m both a surprise and the answer to something he’s been asking himself for a long time.

Meanwhile, I’m in leggings and his ancient Nirvana T-shirt with hair that hasn’t seen shampoo in forty-eight hours. Somewhere between crouching and standing, my cart lets out its death-squeal again, and the sound makes us both jump.

“I didn’t know you were back,” I blurt, because if I don’t say something, I’m going to start mentally listing all the places I’d still let him kiss me if he tried.

His smile twitches. “Just got in last night. I, uh, transferred from down south. I left the DEA. Was gonna call, but—” He glances at the empty space between us as if the missing words might be hovering there.

My jaw drops. “You left the DEA?”

He nods. “I’m back in homicide at Santa Luna PD.”

“Wow.” I’m sure I look just as stupefied as I am. “That’s…” make that stupefied and speechless.

“Can I come by? I’d like to see the kids. And you.” He looks hopeful. “Maybe tonight?”

I nod dumbly.

He left the DEA. He’s back in Santa Luna.

There’s a beat where it feels like the grocery store falls away and it’s just us, and the heavy silence of everything we didn’t say when he left. Everything we aren’t saying now.

A voice cuts through the fog. “Ma’am? Is this your cart?”

We both blink, turn. The stock boy is pushing the screechy-wheeled monstrosity I abandoned nearby.

“Yes,” I say too quickly, grabbing for it. My knuckles brush Noah’s abs, the contact is barely there, but it’s enough to jolt every nerve in my body.

Did he feel that too?