The Simple Wild (Wild 1)

Her face sours with irritation. “This is the only one we have. Do you still want it?”

I sigh. “Sure. Extra foam, please.”

Kayley’s brow furrows.

“Our little princess will have it however you can make it, and thank you for going out of your way for her,” Jonah interrupts in an overly patient tone. “Right, Calla?”

“Of course.” My cheeks burn. How does he make me feel absurd over ordering a simple thing like a coffee, the way I like it?

He nods toward the produce section, letting go of the shopping cart with a little push. “Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll bring it to you as soon as it’s ready.”

Is he offering because he wants a few moments alone with Kayley? Or a few moments away from me? A few minutes to mock “our little princess”? I decide I don’t care either way. “Sounds great!” I stroll away with a wide, satisfied smile.

Because Jonah will have to fork over the $6.50 for my shitty cup of coffee.

“So, we’re done here, right?” Jonah pushes the cart toward the cash­ier lines, stealing a quick glance at his watch. No sooner had he handed me my steaming paper cup—without a sleeve to keep my fingertips from being scorched—than he seized control of the cart. I’d say he was being helpful, but given that I had to speed-walk the aisles to keep up with him, it likely had more to do with getting out of here fast than any kindness. To his credit, though, he hasn’t ditched me yet.

“I . . . think so?” I choke down the last of what might be the worst coffee ever known to man and toss it into a nearby bin. At least my headache is beginning to fade. But I don’t know how I’m going to survive the week, drinking this crap. I wonder if Amazon delivers here . . .

“Last chance,” he warns me.

I scan the cart—fruit smoothies for breakfast, green salads with chicken breast for lunch and dinner, along with a bag of almonds, a dozen eggs, ingredients for sandwiches, and bananas for snacks. Basically what I eat at home. I also remembered the twenty-dollar can of bug spray that will likely cause DEET poisoning, thanks to Jonah. He strolled down the household goods aisle—past an ATV and boat motor, because apparently in Alaska you can buy ATVs and boat motors at the grocery store—and tossed it in without asking, announcing loud enough for everyone two aisles over to hear that if I insist on jogging naked, it’s the only mosquito repellent that will work.

And yet I can’t ignore this nagging feeling that I’ve forgotten something.

“Come on. Let’s go. Get Wren to bring you back if you forgot something.”

“As if.” I let out a derisive snort. “He’s too busy making a buck to make time for his own daughter. He doesn’t even want me here.”

Jonah scowls. “Who told you that?”

“No one has to. It’s pretty damn clear.” If it weren’t for Agnes, I wouldn’t even know he was sick.

Agnes.

Dinner tonight.

That’s what I was forgetting. “Red or white?”

“What?” Jonah frowns in confusion, caught off guard by my question.

“Agnes invited me and my dad to dinner tonight. I need to bring something for her.” Plus, I think I hear a bottle of vodka calling my name, to get me through this week. “Red or white wine?”

He waves it away. “Don’t bother. She doesn’t expect it.”

“I’m not going to show up to someone’s house empty-handed,” I mutter, my eyes roving the store signage, searching for the liquor aisle that we obviously missed. “Who does that?”

“I do it all the time,” he retorts, as if proud of that fact.

“Yeah . . . well . . .” It was a rhetorical question, but I shouldn’t be at all surprised that the yeti doesn’t understand basic etiquette. Meanwhile, my mother had me bringing cookies and cupcakes to my friends’ houses as a thank-you for arranged playdates when I was as young as eight. “It’s considered good manners to bring something for the hostess. Like wine,” I say calmly, with as little judgment as I can muster in my voice.

He levels me with that icy gaze for three long beats. “Aggie doesn’t drink. Your dad will have the occasional beer.”

“Great.” Maybe if I show up with a six-pack, he’ll feel obligated to talk to me for more than a minute. “Where can I get—”

“You can’t. It’s a dry community. They don’t sell alcohol in Bangor.”

“What?” I feel my face twist with shock. “You’re lying.”