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Luna gasps again, turning back to August. “You. Traitor.”
My son holds his hands up in innocence—or maybe surrender. “She told me not to say anything!”
“Well then,” Luna huffs, giving me a poke. “Consider this a birthday cakeanda congratulatory cake.”
Swatting Luna away, Amelia slips an arm around my shoulders, giving me a gentle squeeze. “Welcome to the family. I apologize in advance.”
* * *
There are very few places I hate more than my childhood home; the grocery store is one of them.
I used to think it was a special kind of torture, being forced to go somewhere full of things you couldn’t afford, especially with a child who couldn’t understand that. I hated refusing August anything, and I hated how it made him cry, and I hated that his tears and the judgmental looks they earned made me feel embarrassed—like I was the worst mother in the world. I used to dread swiping my EBT card because the looks would only get worse, the whispers louder. I used to fight the temptation to lob tinned green beans at a minimum of three people because grocery stores—or at least the ones back home—are a cesspit of gossip, and I guess people thought I couldn’t hear, what with the screaming child and everything.
Things are different now. New place, new people, an older son who unfortunately is far too knowledgeable of our past financial strife and will only choose a treat if I threaten to make him go get tampons or diapers or something equally mortifying to an eleven-year-old. But I will always have Grocery Store Stress Disorder, and for some reason, it flares when I steer my cart down a new aisle and find Cass Morgan surveying the shelves.
I stop dead in my tracks, blinking at him like he’s a mirage. A mirage in perfectly tailored trousers, dark sunglasses, and—JesusfuckingChrist—a white, bicep-bearing vest. August bumps into my back, spluttering “what the heck?” but he too goes still at the sight of my potential fake boyfriend. “What’s he doing here?”
Buying pickles, apparently. He’s clutching a jar of them, and I’m so busy salivating over the mere thought of ripping that jar open, I don’t notice him noticing us. Nor do I notice his approach until his cart is bumping against mine. “Hey.”
I think I smile. Maybe I grimace. I definitely, unfortunately, against my will,waveand drawl, “Howdy.”
Even August, the other half of Team Lane, the one person always on my side, looks at me funny.Howdy?he mouths.
Shut up.
“How did today go?”
My gaze snaps back to Cass, who’s trying very hard to hide his amusement. “It was fine.”
He looks at August to confirm. “Yeah?”
You know what’s worse than the father of my unborn child conspiring with my son against me? My little fucking traitor only hesitates slightly before selling me out. “Not really.”
I blink at him. “You’re grounded for the rest of your life.”
He shrugs like he thinks I’m not dangerously close to meaning it. Especially when Cass clears his throat, bringing my attention back to him, and raises his brow in a silent command to explain.
I sigh. “It’s just gossip.”
“What gossip?”
“You know.” I jerk my head towards August purposefully—please don’t make me say the words ‘gold-digging whore’ in front of my son. “The usual.”
Understanding dawns. “Ah.”
Who knew one little noise could sound so deadly?
Unnerved by the tight clench of his jaw, I clear my throat. “Okay, well. Nice seeing you.”
My hasty escape attempt is foiled. When I try to maneuver around him, I’m foiled by a firm hand on my cart. “What’s the rush?”
Well, you asked me to fake-date you and I’m still thinking about it and I don’t want to give you—or anyone else—the impression that I’ve already made up my mind.“We’re shopping.”
“So am I.”
“You’re buying pickles.” August peers into his cart. “And a lot of strawberries.”
Dark eyes flit to me, freakingsparkling. “Had a craving. They’re pretty large, right?”
