Peeking back down the aisle, but now not seeing him, my pulse begins to race. “No, no, no! I’ve lost visual…” I take a second to steel my nerves.
Dammit, where are you, you sneaky bastard? I quickly decide to take a chance, and dart blindly over to Aisle 2. Another glance. Luckily, he’s nowhere to be found. Phew.
Okay, time to regroup. I stare down the aisle, biting my thumbnail as I shift from foot to foot. It’s going to be all right. I’m in the home stretch. One more aisle to go and I’ll be near the front exit so I can get the hell out of here before he sees me. I turn, preparing to sprint over to Aisle 1 then make a dive out the front doors. A fine and reasonable plan. “You got this, Eastlyn. No fear. Ride or die, ride or die!” I hiss, and bounce on the balls of my feet, getting ready to sprint.
I whisper, “Go, go, go!” and am about to spring into action when I feel a hand on my shoulder, right fucking behind me, like a damn stealth ninja.
“I see you’re still your own best friend, Sprinkles. Talk to yourself much?” a deep voice says.
Startled, I let out a very unladylike shriek, caught completely off guard by the baritone rumble in my ear. Not only do I scream like I’m in a horror movie, I jump like Jason Vorhees himself is hot on my tail and I’m about to die. Arms flailing, I lose my footing, tripping over my ratty flip-flops which have gotten tangled up around my feet, and land right in the centre of a display of Ritz Cracker boxes. And I don’t mean a few, I’m talking a frigging skyscraper of the “get-togethers done right” snacks (on sale, of course). There are hundreds of boxes, and they are literally flying and scattering everywhere, mostly on top of me.
But that’s not what’s bothering me in the moment. No, it’s the sound of that familiar deep voice, one I’d recognize anywhere, always. It’s a voice that has always—and most likely always will—send a vibrating zing of awareness throughout my body, its smooth intonation attacking my senses without mercy or remorse, its deep humming sound affecting me from head to toe. That same voice I’ve dreamt about my whole life, wishing and waiting for the day when that voice would whisper sweet nothings in my ear while he made me his, again and again.
“And I see you still have those two left feet,” McCoy Graves adds, his eyes shining with mirth as he extends a hand to help me up, just as the store manager and a stockboy make their way over to the toppled packages, looking alarmed.
“Jesus, lady, you all right?” I hear the bigger man ask, walking closer to where I’m sitting, dumbfounded, among the broken boxes and spilled crackers. “Ethan page Les. We’re gonna need another hand on deck with a broom to get this cleaned up quickly,” he says, obviously annoyed.
Ha! I feel your pain, buddy. I almost made it out alive…
“Come on, Sprinkles, let’s get you up,” that deep voice says, with the same effect it’s always had. I sit for a moment, registering the scene in front of me. Words elude me as I simply stare up into the blue eyes of the boy I could never forget. Silence surrounds us, or maybe I’m just so entranced that all sound has vanished. The bastard’s lips pull to the side, letting me know he’s trying not to laugh. I swat his hand away like a petulant child.
“I’m fine,” I finally manage, mortified.
So, here stands the infamous McCoy Graves, in his glory—all six feet of him—in his signature Blundstone boots and wearing his trademark smirk. His turquoise eyes sparkle, indicating that he’s enjoying himself far too much. Here in the flesh is the same boy I’d eyed across the family dinner table for years. The one I’d imagined swapping spit with more times than I could count as we grew from tweens to teens to adults. Especially after discovering that the swapping of said spit would result from having McCoy’s lips move over mine. Yes, here he stands, older and leaner and still fit, looking as lethal to the world’s female population as ever. His tight grey polo shirt stretches over the muscular chest I’d always admired from afar, the arms I’d longed to feel wrapped around me.
God, the number of nights I’d fallen asleep thinking of those arms…
Feeling my heart race as I try to force my eyes to stop drinking him in, I realize I still need to get the hell away from here. I just can’t look away. His brown hair is still buzzed along the sides like it always was, only a little longer on the top than it used to be, which suits him more. Lord, he’s even sexier now. Traces of a five o’clock shadow visible along his jaw do absolutely nothing to distract me from admiring the curves of his full upper lip.
Instead of asking him, “What the hell are you doing back in town?” all I can do is think about how maybe this is my opportunity to convert my countless teen-girl fantasies of spit-swapping and bumping uglies into reality. Even if it has to happen here, at the end of Aisle 1, among a greasy spray of crumbled crackers…
But then he has to go and open that damn mouth of his again. “Looking sharp, Sprinkles. And it was good to see you, too,” he says, a satisfied look on his face. And I remember. I remember it all…
McCoy Graves was a jerk…and apparently that hasn’t changed.
My name is Eastlyn Hatfield, and I am now officially un-addicted to Açaí Bowls.
Books by Gillian Jones
My Mind’s Eye (Pub Fiction Book)
On the Rocks (Pub Fiction Book 2)
One Last Shot (Pub Fiction Book 3)
Call Me
Tainted by Love
Love Won
Fighting Weight
Fighting Her (YA Version)
First Love (Winning at Love Book 2) Page 29
