"Sure we can," he said on a shrug, squeezing my butt for emphasis.
"It's inappropriate," I objected as he started pushing the cart with his free hand, making me walk forward with him.
"Yep," he agreed.
"People are looking at us," I tried, because they were and it was borderline mortifying.
"Sure are," he agreed and I could see he was pressing his lips together to keep from laughing.
"This isn't funny."
"Honey," he said, suddenly turning me and pressing my back against the glass of a freezer, crushing my body against it with his, his hand still in my back pocket, "not like I got my hands in your panties. People want to look, let them look. They're probably just jealous 'cause they got no ass to grab or their husband hasn't grabbed theirs in a decade. Fuck what everyone else thinks." With that, he stepped away and resumed his casual cart pushing, firm hand on my behind as he smiled huge at anyone who dared looked our way.
Fuck what everyone else thinks. I wondered if that was some motto of his. Judging by his tats and piercings and the unusual modern-day punk way he dressed, I figured that was probably the case. I was never that kind of person. I always worried, always wondered what people were thinking about me or saying about me. I always molded my behavior so that they didn't have much to work off of. And, quite honestly, it was exhausting. How nice it must be for him to not fret like that over every little thing. How much head space that must have cleared up.
"Buttermilk?" I asked as he slipped it into the cart.
"You're making me homemade biscuits," he informed me.
"Oh I am, am I?" I asked, smiling a little.
"Of course you are," he said, nudging my shoulder with his.
And it was right then, right there in the cold aisle in an unfamiliar grocery store when a thought hit me that made me feel almost light-headed. And that thought was: I liked this. I liked shopping for food with him. I liked his familiar friendliness. I liked his boyish presumptuousness. Heck, I even liked his hand on my butt. I could do it, this exact thing, I could do it with him every week for the rest of my life and never get tired of it. That was freaking terrifying.
"Uh oh," he said, tugging me out of my head. "There's those lines again," he said, reaching out and touching them.
"I was just thinking. Stop watching me; it's creepy."
"About damn time you got yourself a nice girl," a female voice called from behind me and Johnnie's face immediately lit up. "Parading around town with all those short skirts with nothing but air between their ears." Johnnie turned me, but did not remove his hand from my pocket to face the woman. She was middle aged (or just past) with dark hair and light, almost see-through green eyes that were unmistakably familiar. This tiny little slip of a woman was Paine's mother. "Manners," she said to Johnnie with a lifted brow and he had the good sense to look sheepish. "Mama Gina, this is Amelia. Amelia, this is Gina. She's..."
"Paine's mother," I supplied, offering my hand which she accepted. "I met your son yesterday. He was nice enough to, um, walk me to... my door."
"He's a good boy when he lifts himself from whatever stranger's bed he tumbled into," she said frankly, but with very little animosity and I was left wondering why it wasn't weird that she knew her son was a, well, whore. "Good to see Shoot here settling down," she said and Johnnie didn't move to correct her and I felt it wasn't my place to do so. "Maybe it will rub off on my son. Whoring around is cute and all in your twenties. Not so much in your thirties. You cooking for him?" she asked me, nodding toward the cart.
"Yes, ma'am," I answered with a small smile.
"Lose this one and I'm coming over and tearing you a new one," she said to Shooter, who smiled. "Don't let his reputation fool you, he's a good boy. Just needed a good woman to calm him down. You guys have a nice meal. Amelia," she added, stopping mid-turn, "have Shoot bring you to dinner at my place sometime."
"Yes, ma'am," Johnnie answered immediately, leaving me almost sputtering at him as she walked away. "What?" he asked, looking innocent.
"You shouldn't tell her you'll bring me when you know you won't."
"Who says I won't?"
"Johnnie..."
"Look," he said, charming smile falling away, looking suddenly all-business. "I'm not the kinda man to pussyfoot around shit. I think it, I feel it, I say it. So I'm saying this and I don't care if it freaks you out. I don't care if it permanently etches those lines between your brows. I like you, honey."
"You don't even know me," I countered automatically, a swirling feeling starting in my belly that was scary, but in an almost good way that I knew could only mean trouble.
"I like the way you try to put me in my place. I like that you know how to cook and bake. I like that you're passionate about helping people you don't even know. I like the way you hate my fuckin' cat. I like the way you filled out those jean shorts the first day I met you and the way you fill out a sundress even better. I like the way some of your smiles can mean 'fuck you' and I like the way your voice dips low and shy when you're unsure of yourself. Babe, how the fuck much more do I need to simply declare that I like it?" He did sort of have a point. "And know what else, angel?"
"What?" I asked, not given much of a choice.
"I think you like me too."
"I don't know..." I started.
"Babe," he said, shaking his head at me like I was trying his patience. "You know I was beat as a kid. You know I ran away from home to escape that shit. You know my dad was a fuck and you know I never let that go. You know I was a spiteful little shit sending him scotch every month, hoping he was drowning himself in it. You know I have the mouth of a sailor. You know I kill people for a living. You know all that bad shit and you still like me."