Page 48 of The Five Hole

I grin and toss the oranges in after the rice.

We round the corner near the bakery aisle, and I brush against him—light, nothing obvious, but he leans into it. Just a bit. Enough to make my chest go stupid.

It’s not like we’re holding hands or anything, but I catch the little things. Thatcher likes affection.

He stands a little closer than necessary. He directs me toward things like I already know which brand to grab. He watches me out of the corner of his eye like I’m going to disappear if he looks away too long.

He likes this. Us. Even here.

He just doesn’t like them.

Because the second we get spotted—Mrs. Calloway again, because of course—it all changes.

“Oh!” she says, halfway through a conversation with someone near the onions. “There’s our town’s favorite lovebirds.”

Thatcher stiffens like someone pulled a cord in his spine.

I offer a smile. “Hey, Mrs. Calloway.”

She tilts her head. “You two shopping together now? How sweet. Should we expect a brunch invite next?”

I open my mouth to respond, but Thatcher’s already steering the cart away.

“Have a good one,” I say over my shoulder, jogging a little to catch up with him.

We get to the dairy case before he speaks again.

“She wasn’t even trying to be subtle,” he mutters.

“She doesn’t know how.”

He grabs a carton of eggs like it personally offended him.

“I don’t mind,” I say.

He looks at me. “I know.”

But he does. That’s the thing.

It’s not that he’s ashamed. It’s that he’s private. And here, in this town, being private isn’t an option—not when peoplemeasure your closeness by how many inches apart you stand in the bread aisle.

So I brush my hand against his as I reach for the milk.

He doesn’t pull away.

Doesn’t look at me either.

But when we get to the checkout, he slides his credit card across the counter and says, “You’re cooking tonight.”

I smirk, tapping my card faster than he does.

“That’s not necessary,” he protests, but I shrug him off.

“You’ve cooked for me how many times now? Let me grab the groceries.”

He relents. “You’re still cooking tonight.”

“You want to survive, you’ll help. And grab another bottle of wine.”