She began to walk, slowly. “You want me to push?”
“Sure, why not? Let’s hit the produce first.” He leaned toward her again. “I’m right next to you, so don’t worry. I won’t let you take out a pyramid display of canned yams or anything.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Eric studied her as he pulled Jep’s grocery list from his back pocket. “My pleasure.” She had on white shorts that showed toned, tan legs, a worn white Converse and a worn navy Converse—which totally cracked him up. Her navy tank was indeed inside out, with the little silky tag on the side seam hanging loose. Her arms were firm with perfectly shaped female biceps—not too big, but definitely defined. Her tanned skin was nearly flawless, save the occasional rogue freckle here and there, as well as the few that trekked across her nose. A finely structured face with a pair of incredibly juicy lips—
“Why aren’t we moving?”
Eric blinked, pulling himself from his engrossed inspection. “Sorry,” he admitted. “I got all caught up in checking you out.”
He watched her cheeks turn pink, despite the fact that her brows pulled together into a frown. “Are you always so arrogantly forward with strangers?”
Eric grinned and glanced around, noticing an older woman with snowy white hair piled high on her head, sorting through the bananas. The woman’s half smile and brow wiggle almost made him burst out laughing. He shrugged and waved, then bent his head close to Reagan’s.
“We used to swim shirtless together in the river,” he said softly, next to her ear. “In nothing but a pair of cutoff jeans. We’re far, far from strangers, Reagan Rose.” He lowered his voice even more. “We were practically naked together—”
Her elbow landed squarely in his ribs. “Ow,” he grunted.
“Will you cut it out?” she spat. “You’re ridiculous. That was a hundred years ago, and most of it I don’t even remember.”
Eric passed another glance at the old woman by the bananas, who steadily watched the exchange between him and Reagan. Her grin was wider now, and he only returned the smile and shrugged, holding his hands up in defeat. The old woman shook her head, amused, and ambled to the bin of oranges.
“Okay, okay, I give,” Eric said. He stepped back a bit before Reagan punched him in the face. “Tell me what you want and I’ll guide us there.”
She gave a frustrated sigh. “Oranges. Grapes. Bananas. Onions. Avocados. Romaine. Tomatoes. Green pepper. Mushrooms. Garlic.”
Eric watched her eyes as she spoke, noticing the brilliant blue with flecks of green and the dark blond lashes that fanned out like caterpillars against her upper cheekbones. Finely arched brows had eased from their perpetual frown, adjusting into the sexiest expression he’d ever seen. In. His. Life. He shook his head. “Your wish is my command,” he said, guiding them toward her choices. “I love the way the produce section smells,” he said, drawing in a large breath. “Don’t you?”
“I guess,” she said, feeling the avocados with her slight fingers.
“Well, take a whiff,” he challenged. “Like, a big one. And really notice the different scents.” When she ignored him, he pressed. “Reagan, do it.”
She went rigid, back stiff, and wouldn’t budge. Didn’t inhale.
He felt determination creep up his throat, and Eric reached for a big fat orange and held it under her nose. Pushed it against her nose. “Seriously, Rea. Sniff it.”
She gave a slight inhale then grabbed the orange from him. “Great. It smells like an orange, Eric. Can we go please?”
He could hear it in her voice—the loss of patience, the frustration at his urging. Part of it made him want to press, force her to realize that losing her sight wasn’t the end of the world. The other wondered how far he could push without getting his eyes blacked out.
In the end, he conceded. “Okay, Miss Attitude. How many do you want?”
“Three. If you just give me the bag I can pick them out.”
He obliged, handing her one of the little plastic bags on a roller close to the bin. Reagan felt around the oranges, squeezing lightly until she had chosen her three. Silently, she stood. Waiting. He could tell she was warring with herself.
“Okay, what next?” he asked, throwing in a bag of seedless red grapes. He plucked a few out and started popping them into his mouth. “Want a grape?”
“No, I don’t want a grape. They’re not washed. The pasta and spaghetti sauce aisle, please. And I need ground Italian sausage.”
“Good choice, one of my faves,” he answered. Pretending not to notice her grumpiness. Eric guided them down aisle after aisle, and they’d stopped at the tomato sauce to ponder the selections when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. When he looked, it was Jep.
He answered it. “Franco’s Pizza. Pick up or delivery?”
“Pizza my ass, you crazy boy.”
Eric glanced at Reagan, since Jep’s loud voice could be heard quite plainly without the speaker being on. A very subtle grin lifted the corners of those plump lips, and it made him smile, too. “What’d you forget, Jep my good man?”
“Buttermilk. I need some buttermilk. You talk that Quinn girl into going with you?”
Eric laughed. “Of course,” he replied, watching Reagan’s face. “She can’t keep her hands off me, Jep. It’s the craziest thing—umph!”
Just that fast, Reagan planted her pointy little elbow into his ribs.
Jep laughed. “Right. Sounds like it. And get me a candy bar, son. A big one.”
“Copy that, Gramps,” Eric wheezed, and stuffed the phone in his back pocket. He rubbed his side. “You punch pretty hard for a runt.”
“You deserved it,” she countered, and started pushing the grocery cart. “A large jar of plain sauce and angel-hair pasta, if you don’t mind.”
“Good choice,” he answered, and grabbed the items from the shelf. He could tell Reagan was just not going to cave. They passed a woman holding a silver tray filled with meat and cheese on toothpicks, and Eric plucked two up and grinned at the woman. He popped one chunk of cheese in his mouth.
“Reagan, here, you gotta try this cheese.”
“No, thanks.”
Eric popped the other one and nodded at the woman. “You don’t know what you’re missing. I could eat the whole tray.” Still she said nothing. “Anything else?”
“French bread,” she answered. “Wine.”
“Gotcha.” They made their way first to the wine and beer aisle, where he studied the entire row of choices.
“Red or white or...pink?” he asked.
“Red.”
Ah, at least she did care about that one. Scanning the red choices, he picked one, staring at the label and wondering how in the hell he was supposed to know if it was right or not, shrugged, nestled it into the cart, then headed to the bread aisle, and he handed her a store-made loaf. “How’s this one?” He glanced down at her, watching her response.
She squeezed it, looking completely uninterested. “Fine.”
Eric laughed. “Reagan, you didn’t even smell it.”
A second—maybe two—passed before she lifted it to her nose and inhaled. She nodded. “Like I said—fine.”
Eric dropped his head and sighed. “Anything else? If you say one single girlie product—”