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And it hurts.
I juggle my purchases to the till and ask for a carrier bag.
The girl dumps the bag on the counter. “Cash or card?”
“Card.” I dig in the pocket of my jacket for my phone. I have my credit and debit cards tucked in the phone case. My heart sinks.
Shit. I left my phone at home.
I pat my other pockets as though I might discover a spare tenner lying about. No such luck. I decide to try negotiating. I live just along the street, for fuck’s sake.
“I left my cards at home. I’ll just nip back and—”
“That’s fine. I’ll keep these things behind the counter until you come back.”
“But I need the nappies now. Can’t you smell it?”
“I’m sorry,” she relies. “It’s the company policy.”
“But I come in here all the time. You know me.”
“It’s the policy,” she repeats. “No exceptions.”
The whining starts, rising from under my clothing as my baby realises how damp and uncomfortable she is.
“It’s all right,” I try to soothe her. “Mummy will get you home soon…”
“That’ll be twelve pounds forty-seven,” the shop assistant reminds me, eying the queue already gathering.
“But…”
“If you’re not able to pay, maybe you could step aside and let me serve someone else.” Her tone couldn’t be more disinterested in my plight. And it’s not even as though I can’t pay. She must realise…
“I’ll get that.” A black credit card lands on the counter.
I stare at it for a moment, then turn to thank whoever offered to pay for my groceries.
“Really, there’s no need—”Fuck!
“Morning, Ruth.”
The mossy-green eyes are every bit as piercing as before. The blond hair and chiselled jaw every bit as arresting. Jack Morgan is as deliciously sexy as I remembered. Or dreamed.
“I… I…”
“Let me get that.” He picks up the plastic bottle of lemonade and drops it into the carrier bag, to be followed by the curry. “Chicken korma?” He grins at me. “Wimp.”
“Put my things down,” I protest.
“I paid for them, so I suppose that makes them my things,” he replies, doing the contactless thing at the till. “Is that everything you need?”
“Yes, but—” I’m stammering. Not a good look. “Thanks, but I can manage from here.”
The shop assistant is already beaming at the next customer, a clear signal that I’ve outstayed my welcome. I’ve no option but to follow Jack out of the shop.
He has my shopping in the bag and strides off along the street towards my house. I fall in behind him, grateful that the whining from within my coat has subsided even if the aroma hasn’t.
At my door, he pauses and holds out his hand for the key. I pass it over without thinking, then immediately regret it.
