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14
I Couldn’t Catch My Breath
Iwas reaching for a can of tomatoes off the top shelf in the supermarket when I saw him. He wore a dark suit and crisp white shirt. His tie was burgundy. I flicked my eyes away and attempted to gain an extra few inches of height by stepping up on the first shelf rung, balancing precariously in my sneakers.
“Want a hand?” a male voice asked.
I stepped back and stared into blue eyes — nothing remotely special about them, other than the fact that my heart skipped a beat.
“Sure,” I said. “But watch out for the corn kernels, they’re reluctant to give up the goods.”
“The goods being crushed Italian tomatoes?”
“Well, they wouldn’t be whole tomatoes, would they?” I offered, accepting the can and placing it in my trolley.
He smiled. I thanked him. We parted.
I was in the bread aisle when we crashed into each other.
“Trolley collision in aisle ten,” the suit guy said, laughing. His eyes transformed when he smiled, into something stunning. “Send the paramedics!”
“You’re better off calling the Firies,” I told him. “They respond much quicker.”
He stared at me for a second, then said, “Do they? I never knew.”
I nodded and manoeuvred my trolley past his, careful not to scrape the wheels together.
“Trust me,” I threw over my shoulder. “I’m a professional.”
His grin followed me out of the supermarket and all the way home.
* * *
Sean had left for his extra shift at New Lynn early when I got back. His note said he’d get something to eat on the way over there. I stared at the can of tomatoes in my hand, then flicked my eyes to the fresh basil and three different kinds of minced meat.
The meat went in the freezer, the tomatoes over a bowl of plain pasta. I binned the basil.
Crash Bandicoot kept me company while I drank several glasses of wine and nibbled on strawberries.
* * *
The smell of bacon frying woke me. The gentle hum of a man hard at work in the kitchen met my ears. I rolled over and stared at the bedside clock, groaning. My last day off and Sean had decided to make me breakfast in bed . . . the moment he’d come in from nightshift.
I sat up and smiled when he walked into the room. There was a single red rose in a miniature vase on the tray he carried. Fried tomatoes and hash browns, mushrooms, bacon and eggs — sunny side up, just how I liked them.
“What’s all this?” I asked as he placed the tray across my lap.
“What does it look like? I’m giving my wife breakfast in bed.”
“And the occasion?”
“Does there need to be one?” He climbed onto the bed and lay out beside me, running a hand up my thigh.
“You’re not eating?” I asked, digging in and moaning in pleasure.
He laughed. “Had something before I left New Lynn.”
“Busy night?”
