“Breakfast,” he says.
“That is not breakfast. You have the pallet of a six year old,” I shoot back, and I’m smiling before I realize it.
Easton grins. “We're never too old for cereal.”
“Well, look at this.” The voice scrapes my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
My smile vanishes so fast it almost hurts. My fingers go still on the cart handle, and beside me, Easton goes quiet in a way that makes the air change.
Lana steps around the endcap like she has been waiting for a spotlight. Her blonde hair is curled, her lips glossy, and her expression sharpened into the kind of smile that never reaches her eyes. She looks at me slowly, taking in the paint on my jeans, the messy knot of my hair, the cart full of discount produce, and every bit of confidence I had a second ago starts looking for somewhere to hide.
“Cat,” she says, all sugar and poison. “Still trying to turn that money pit into something people will actually pay to stay in?”
The words hit exactly where she aims them. For one awful second, I see the peeling paint, the crooked rail, the bills stacked on Grandpa’s desk. Then I lift my chin because I will be damned if Lana sees the effect her words have on me. “Still mistaking snobbery for a personality?”
Easton makes a sound that might be a cough or a laugh. Lana’s eyes flick to him, and just like that, I no longer exist.
“And who are you?” she asks, her voice dipping into something breathier, softer, fake. I can tell the second she recognizes Easton and decides to pretend she doesn’t. “I definitely would’ve remembered seeing you around.”
Easton does not move closer to her. He does not smile. His hand settles at the small of my back, warm and steady—not possessive so much as present, like he is reminding me I am not standing there alone. He looks at Lana like he has dealt with her kind a million times and found every version boring.
“Not interested,” he says.
Lana blinks. “Excuse me?”
“I’m not fuckin’ interested.” His tone is flat. “And if your plan was to make yourself look better by tearing Cat down, it didn’t work. It just made you look like a shallow piece of shit.”
Heat floods Lana’s cheeks. Her mouth parts, then snaps shut. She looks at me, and for one glorious second, she has nothing to say. I could be the bigger person. I could spare her further embarrassment. I have no interest in doing either. “You take care now, Lana,” I say, loading the potatoes into the cart as if she is already an afterthought.
“Come on, baby.” Easton turns the cart before Lana can say another word, his shoulder brushing mine as we head toward the checkout. I feel that small touch everywhere.
“That was rude,” I say once we are far enough away.
“Yep.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“I know how she talked to you.”
The answer lands low in my chest. I look down at the groceries because looking at him feels risky. “I can handle Lana.”
“Never said you couldn’t.” Easton’s voice gentles, but there is still steel under it. “Doesn’t mean I have to stand there and let her try.”
For a second, I forget we are in a grocery store. I forget the cart, the cashier, and the people milling around. All I know is Easton standing beside me, steady and solid, as if choosing my side is the easiest thing he has done all day.
“Thank you,” I say, softer than I mean to.
His gaze holds mine. “Anytime, baby.”
On the drive back, neither of us says much. But the silence is different now—warmer and thicker, full of all the things we are not saying while the bags rustle in the backseat and the Bronco eats up the road toward the ranch. When the house comes into view, sunlight settling over the barn, I feel the usual rush of panic and determination. Underneath it, there is something else.
Hope, maybe.
Or trouble.
With Easton, I am starting to think they might be the same thing.
By the time we pull up to the house, I have almost convinced myself that the moment in the grocery store did not rearrange something inside me. Almost. Then Easton carries in three bags at once, sets them on the counter with far too much care, and reaches for the small hardware-store sack.
