Accidental Witness (Morelli Family 1)

“Okay, can we get some garlic bread now?” Allan asks, not noticing my sudden discomfort.

Instead of answering my brother, I tentatively meet Vince’s eyes. “What are you doing here?”

“Shopping.”

There’s no reason to assume he isn’t—everyone needs groceries, after all—but I don’t believe him. I nod anyway, turning back to my cart and pushing it to the edge of the aisle without a word.

Wheeling the cart into the narrow space between the registers, I take both items from the cart and place them on the belt. Then, as is natural from that angle, I glance behind me.

There’s Vince, in line behind me. He’s wearing dark wash jeans and a charcoal gray shirt, and man, for a murderer, he looks good.

Just thinking the m-word causes my stomach to sink, and I look at the cashier, wishing she’d hurry up.

“Who are you?” Allan asks him.

“A friend of your sister’s,” Vince answers.

I cut a glance his way, since that’s not how I would describe him. “Why are you in line?”

“Hm?”

“You said you were at the store because you were shopping.” I indicate his empty hands. “You didn’t buy anything.”

A dark brow raises, then he grabs two snack sized bags of chips from the impulse-buy rack and holds them up for my brother. “Which one should I get?”

I roll my eyes as my brother jabs the orange bag. Vince puts the other one back and holds up the bag, shaking it. “See? I’m buying something.”

The cashier rings up my items and gives me my total. I freeze, frowning at the computer screen. I brought exactly $4 with me—just enough to buy a box of spaghetti and a jar of sauce. I’m somehow fifty cents short.

“Wasn’t the pasta on sale?”

“Yep,” she says, glancing at the screen.

I awkwardly draw my money out of my pocket and count it, knowing there won’t be enough. I don’t understand why. Did Allan not grab the right sauce?

It’s humiliating, especially with Vince standing right there, but I don’t know what else to do. “Um, how much was the sauce?”

She regards me with vague irritation and I flush.

“It’s just—I didn’t bring my purse in,” I say, even though there’s no more money in my purse. “I thought I brought in enough, but I’m a few cents short.”

She digs the jar of pasta out, and sure enough, it’s a size larger than the one we usually get. I hadn’t been paying attention when Allan grabbed it, because Vince threw me off.

“Okay, I’ll just go back and grab the right one,” I say, reaching out to take the jar of sauce.

Before I can, Vince is squeezing past the cart, coming toward the register. He drops the chips on the belt and takes the sauce out of my hand, giving it back to the cashier. “Can you just add the chips to her bill?”

“You don’t have to do that—I can just go get the right one. I could’ve paid for it, I just…”

He holds up a hand to stop me, handing the cashier a twenty dollar bill. She quickly adds his chips to the bag and gives him the new total.

“Give her the change,” he says, moving past me to grab the grocery bag.

I couldn’t be more humiliated as the cashier hands me the money—which is saying something, because I’ve been embarrassed on several occasions in this grocery store. Being poor sucks.

“You really didn’t have to do that,” I murmur.

Vince shrugs, like it’s nothing. I look at the $14 in my hand like it’s printed on gold.

The difference between us couldn’t be more pronounced.

“You could invite me to dinner to thank me,” he teases, waiting for me to wheel my sister toward the door.

“You want to come over for dinner?” I say, my disbelief evident.

“Well, I haven’t eaten any yet,” he says, like that makes all the sense in the world.

“With my siblings?” I add, now really looking at him like he’s crazy.

“Hey, I work with what I’m given,” he states.

I automatically wheel the cart outside, but once we get to the car and I realize we’re more or less alone with Vince, my discomfort seeps back in.

Lowering my voice, I tell him, “You don’t have to keep an eye on me, you know.”

“Maybe I want to keep an eye on you,” he returns, meeting my gaze.

I swallow. “Why?”

He merely shrugs, opening my passenger door and placing the grocery bag inside. “I’ll meet you at your house.”

I want to argue—I don’t necessarily want to be alone with the guy who broke into my house the night before, but I know it won’t do much good. If Vince wants to come over for dinner, he’ll come over for dinner—whether he’s invited or not.

Chapter Five

He doesn’t get there right away. I hustle my siblings inside and get them situated with drinks and activities, nervously watching the door for his arrival. I start dinner anyway, since I’m cooking the same thing even if he doesn’t show up.