I should. But all I’m thinking is, yeah, I know he’s ridiculously hot and he likes me. Like… a lot. Me. So get your eyes off him.
Yep, I’ve gone crazy.
A man comes into my vision to start bagging. He reaches for one of our carts, pulling it closer so he can put the bagged-up items in it, and Tyson grabs my non-injured hand and roughly pulls me to him, eyeing the guy. The guy is about five foot six and twenty years older than me. He couldn’t help me if Tyson got physical; he’d get hurt.
My back is plastered against Tyson’s front and then he caresses the bite marks on my neck while he makes a low growling sound behind me. I twist to look at him, feeling like it’s highly inappropriate for him to touch me there. It doesn’t feel like he’s near my collarbone. It feels illicit. Like he’s being dirty in public.
“Tyson,” I whisper, looking over my shoulder.
He’s eying the man bagging the groceries. He stops growling and stares at me. And it dawns that if I ask for help, someone could get hurt. Right? Is that why I’m not saying anything?
The clerk now looks like he’s trying to avoid Tyson’s eyes. I mean, I guess most men wouldn’t want to get into something with a guy that’s about six foot four and built like a professional athlete. Not to mention the growling part. Why is Tyson looking at him like he’s worried he’s about to steal me from him?
Because he knows I’m thinking about crying out that this guy has kidnapped me?
I should say something. I really should.
Tyson stares at the pile of food still being bagged and then the cashier who is still scanning and has decreased her pace, trying to give the bagger time to catch up. He lets out a huff of impatience.
I’m about to start helping bag the groceries when a late teens or early twenties girl comes over and shoots us a smile as she starts helping.
And now she’s eyeing Tyson lustfully.
I stare at the screen and the rising dollar value.
Finally, it’s at the end.
“Three hundred and seventy-seven dollars and sixty-three cents,” our cashier says.
Tyson pulls a wad of cash from his jeans and drops bills on the conveyor belt. He drops too many of them and looks confused for a second, but then shoves the stack of bills at her. She gives him some change and he pockets it.
I’m biting my lip, pondering my next move. His eyes hit mine and he’s looking at me with an intensity that makes me tremble.
The spell is broken when the cashier holds out the long receipt. Tyson doesn’t take it, so I do. I stuff it into one of the bags.
“Thank you,” I say to her, but she’s busy staring at Tyson and doesn’t notice. “And thank you,” I add, to the clerks who are bagging up our last bag. The man acknowledges me with a nod as he sets the final bag into cart number two and he’s studiously avoiding making eye contact. The girl has flipped her hair and sashayed away, obviously looking to get Tyson’s attention. She looks back at him and deflates that he’s not looking at her.
I grab one cart. Tyson grabs the other and shoots the man a dirty look as he passes. I follow him back to his truck and heft some bags into the bed of the pickup truck.
“Into the truck, Ivy,” he orders and opens the door.
“I’ll –” I gesture to the cart.
“Now,” he snaps.
I climb in.
He slams the door.
And then I think, wait... what? Am I going along with this? Why did I listen to him? Why didn’t I ask for help in there? Why didn’t I scream my head off?
I get back out. He’s got half the bags in and he stops and looks at me and he points at the spot I just vacated.
“Pff,” is the sound I make.
I grab my handbag and sling it over my shoulder while I walk away from him, still holding the bag of peas.
Screw this. Why did I even let him get me into his truck? I should’ve kept going. I should’ve – oof! He’s lifted me over his shoulder and he’s carrying me back to his truck. People are driving by and ignoring us. How come? How can they ignore this? A man pushes a cart while talking on his phone and glances at us but with what looks like irritation and keeps going.
“I’m crazy. But you’re crazier if you think I’m cuckoo enough to keep going along with this. I’m out of here.”
“Out of here? We’re out of here. We’re going home.”
“I’m leaving.”
“Not alone, you’re not,” he retorts.
“I’ll scream my head off,” I warn. “You made me lose my peas!”
“Do it,” he dares. “It makes no difference.”