‘Oh yeah,’ he says. ‘Cocktails.’ (I’m not sure he emphasised the first syllable as much as I think he did.) ‘Cocktail cherries are my favourite.’ He looks down at the forgotten strawberries. ‘I’ll put these back then and maybe get some cherries instead.’
Fear that I am making a fool of myself consumes me once more and I simply shrug and say, ‘If you want,’ and run off to the safety of the croissants.
Surrounded by wholesome wholemeal, I try to review the situation. What was that all about? What did it mean? Was he flirting with me? Should I have flirted back a bit more?
‘Nice baps,’ says a familiar voice at my shoulder and a long hand reaches across my chest to pick up a four-pack of burger buns.
It’s such a cliché of classic innuendo that I am left in no doubt. His intentions are impure. In my wicked delight I whip around and wag a finger at him, feeling like Barbara Windsor in a Carry On film. ‘Ooh, cheeky!’
‘I’ve been watching you for weeks,’ he says, still standing behind me, lowering his head for better access to my ear.
‘Have you?’
‘C’mon, you must have noticed. I was a bit worried you’d think I was stalking you.’
‘Oh!’ I twist my neck. My heart pounds. ‘So was I.’
‘Really?’
I look down at his feet, which are big, and wonder for the millionth time whether that shoe-size-cock-size ratio thing is a myth.
‘Kind of,’ I mutter.
‘So you were checking me out while I was checking you out?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Don’t say ‘maybe’. Look at me.’
When I do, his eyes almost glitter. He reminds me of a predator about to make his strike. My legs weaken and my clit pulses.
I take a huge lungful of fresh-baked-bread smell and lean on the shelf for support.
‘I like the way your arse moves when you push a trolley,’ he says in a shade above a whisper while people mooch past, oblivious. ‘Especially today, in that tight skirt. When you bend down to pick up a can from the bottom shelf, it drives me wild.’
‘Oh yeah?’ My answering whisper wavers. You could cut the sexual tension with a knife, or maybe feed it through the bread-slicer on the counter.
‘Oh yeah. Do it for me now. Bend over and pick up that bag of doughnuts down there.’
‘Doughnuts? Which ones? The ring ones?’
‘No, I prefer a hole to be filled. With something sweet and sticky.’
‘Jam, then?’
He laughs. ‘Or toffee.’
‘Filthy pervert. Toffee has no place in a doughnut.’
‘Sounds like I need to teach you a thing or two … about doughnuts.’
He hasn’t touched me yet, but I feel as if he’s all over me somehow and I’m hot and squirmy.
‘Okay.’ I swallow, turn and march towards the shelf in question. I look around to make sure no stray shoppers are watching, lean down extra low, giving my bum a full-bore wiggle. I think the hem might be showing a glimpse of stocking top and suppress a giggle, picturing the effect that sight might have on him.
I pick up the doughnuts – jam – and turn to face him. He looks positivel
y ill with lust. I think that flash of stocking top must have happened.