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~ Bridget ~
Past
After lacing up my running shoes, I grab the grocery list. Normally I’d borrow Amy’s car to go grocery shopping, but she took it to work, and I’ve decided the nice sunny day would make for a good jog down to Trader Joe’s.
“Can you grab me some of those mini ice cream cones?” Simone asks from the living room sofa as I head out.
“They might melt on the way back,” I reply. “I don’t have Amy’s car today.”
“Bummer. I love those mini ice cream cones. I go through a box of them in like two days.”
I like those cones, too, but the walk back from the store will take over an hour.
As I head down the stairs, I pass by Kiera. With her iPhone strapped to her arm, she must have come back from jogging. Her sneakers are immaculately white, and she wears brightly colored, form-fitting leggings and a strappy top. Even I can tell the clothes are high end as far as workout clothes go, in sharp contrast to the bike shorts and baggy sweatshirt I’m wearing.
Kiera sees me but doesn’t say anything.
Before I hit the sidewalk, I make sure my phone, debit card and keys are securely zipped in the pocket of my sweatshirt, then realize I don’t have my grocery list with me. I check my pockets again, then look around me to see if it fell out. Although the list is fairly short, I want it because I don’t want to forget to get pepper.
“Hey.”
Looking up, I see that it’s Darren Lee, leaning against his silver car. I wonder that I didn’t notice it before because it’s probably the fanciest vehicle on the entire street. And Darren, wearing a button-up shirt and black slacks, is the hottest-looking thing on the street.
“Hi,” I reply, half expecting to see JD with him. “Amy’s at work.”
“I came over to give you back your sweater,” he explains before reaching into his car and pulling out a bag.
“Oh, thanks,” I say in surprise as I take the bag and look inside to see that the sweater is neatly folded and even tied with a ribbon.
“It’s been cleaned,” he tells me.
“You didn’t have to—how much do I owe you?” I ask, hoping the cleaning bill isn’t too high.
“Nothing.”
I should insist on paying him back. “Really. It’s—”
“It’s no big deal.” He looks me over. “Where you headed?”
“The grocery store.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
I blink several times. Why is he being nice to me?
“You don’t—” I begin.
Clearly not expecting a refusal, he opens the passenger door. The Trader Joe’s is on his way if he’s headed back to the city, but he doesn’t know that’s where I intend to shop.
“Get in,” he tells me.
To my own chagrin, I do as he says. It’s the path of least resistance, though I don’t want him thinking that I’ll always obey his commands.
“What’s the store?” he asks after he gets in the driver’s seat.
“Trader Joe’s. It’s on University.”
He repeats the info to his car. A map shows up on the windshield.
