The Foxe & the Hound

“Fancy—a veterinarian and a chef.”

“Do you need me to turn the A/C on? You look flushed.”

“Ha ha, how about you just drive, funnyman.”

A few minutes later, we head into the grocery store and I suggest a strategy. “Let’s divide and conquer because I’m already hungry and lasagna takes forever.”

As it is, I’m already planning on peeling open a bag of chips to eat while I peruse the aisles.

“Okay, here.” He rips his grocery list in half and hands me one of the slivers. “I’ll grab the vegetables and then meet back up with you.”

I glance down and admire his chicken-scratch handwriting.

“What a romantic date.”

“Pretend like I’m there with you, being charming.”

“Maybe our hands would have brushed as we reached for the same box of lasagna noodles and we would have blushed and looked away—now we’ll never know.”

He starts to back away, smiling and shaking his head. “I thought you were hungry.”

I reach for a bag of sour cream and onion chips stashed on the end cap of an aisle. I tear them open and pop one into my mouth. Delicious. And if I imagine it’s a healthy green juice, it’s a win-win.

“You have to pay for those, you know.”

“I will,” I say with a shrug. “Now go. I bet I can finish with my list way before you can.”

His brow arches. “Is that a challenge?”

I stuff another chip into mouth, nod, and then take off running in the opposite direction before he even realizes what I’m doing. Technically it’s cheating, but I ignore his shouts behind me as I narrowly avoid a cart being pushed along by an elderly woman. She bats her fist at me like I’m some no-good youth, and hell, maybe I am. I’m running in a grocery store while eating stolen merchandise, but it’s for the greater good—or at least for good, healthy competition.

I realize my mistake a minute later when I glance down at Adam’s list. His messy handwriting might have seemed adorable before, but it’s going to be my downfall in this race. What the hell does he mean by “crosted tumatues”. I squint and gather that the second word is actually tomatoes. Still, what the hell are crosted tomatoes?!

I ask everyone in the tomato and pasta aisle who will humor me.

“Lady, I have no clue. I’m just trying to get to the spaghetti sauce.”

I try someone else. “Excuse me, sir, have you heard of crosted tomatoes?”

He shakes his head and keeps careful watch of me as he scoots his cart past, like he assumes I’m going to reach out and grab it.

“I’m not crazy!” I tell him, like any sane person would. “I just don’t know what crosted tomatoes are!”

Then I fling my arms up in hopeless abandon and knock down one of the display towers so carefully arranged in the aisle. I scramble to keep the cans from rolling too far away and succeed in recreating the display at least half as well as the person who did it before me. Mission accomplished. I look down and read what the cans say: crushed tomatoes. CRUSHED, not crosted! I mistook Adam’s u and h for an o and a t. I shout that to the man who thinks I’m crazy and he tells me I better leave him alone.

I know I’m running behind. Adam is probably done with his list and heading toward the checkout by now. I make a mad dash for tomato sauce and lasagna noodles, and then I spend a solid five minutes in the cheese section trying to decipher his handwriting. Parmesan and mozzarella are easy enough to make out, but there’s a third type of cheese that’s plaguing me. I’m scanning through all the possible options on the shelf when someone says my name behind me.

“Madeleine? Is that you?”

I turn to find Carter grocery shopping in his police uniform. Well damn. I now realize that if he’d worn this getup on our first date, there would have likely been a second.

“Carter! Hey!”

I’m excited to see him for two reasons: he was in the market for a house the last time I checked, and I think he can help me decipher Adam’s handwriting. I start with the latter.

“Oh, yeah, that says ricotta.”

I slap my forehead. “Of course! Duh. Thank you.”

He finds it on the shelf before me and then adds it to the growing pile of ingredients stacked in my arms. I should have grabbed a basket, but in my rush to get going, I forgot one.

“You got it?” he asks with a laugh.

“Yeah. It’s all very strategically balanced and should stay in place as long as I don’t make any sudden movements.”

He laughs again, and I ask how he’s been since the mixer.

“Good. Just picking up extra shifts whenever I can, keeping busy.”

“Sounds fun. Did any properties catch your attention?”