does the set of his jaw, and his hand clenches under mine again.
“I don’t need no charity,” he says curtly. “And I ain’t no pretty boy.” He yanks his hand out of my grasp, dropping the crumpled bill on the ground and stomping back into the bar without looking back.
I stand in stunned silence for a solid minute, staring at the door to the bar with a mixture of frustration and awe. Sweet boys have always been my weakness, but a sweet boy with claws when he needs them? Fuck, that’s the stuff of my fantasies.
It’s all I can do to keep myself from heading back in there and tossing him over my shoulder…or putting him over my knee. The only thing that makes me get into my car and drive away is the promise to myself that I’ll come back in a few days.
I don’t think I could stay away if I tried.
Chapter 2
Sterling
I stand in front of a row of canned soup, trying to decide if it’s better to buy a larger amount of pea soup—which I detest—or only two cans of the more expensive chicken soup. I know the answer, but I want to pretend for another couple minutes that I could get the chicken soup if I wanted.
Of course, that nagging little voice in the back of my mind reminds me that if it hadn’t been for my own dang pride, I coulda bought a whole lot of chicken soup. At a dollar fifty per can, a hundred dollars…oh boy, that would be a helluva lotta soup.
I squirm internally, embarrassment filling me at the reminder of the other night, and the handsome stranger who clearly took one look at me and decided I was some sorta charity case. I might not be rich, but I get by just fine. I keep food in the cupboards and keep my mama alive, and if that’s all I can do, it’ll have to be good enough.
Who does he think he is anyway? Just because he’s some sexy, gorgeous man from the big city doesn’t give him no right to judge my life or take pity on me.
With a huff, I finally cave and fill my basket with as much of the God-awful pea soup as I can afford, and then treat myself to a box of Saltines to make it a little more bearable. And, since I made a good choice with the soup, I have enough left over for a package of lunch meat.
Before I can get tempted to grab anything else, I head up to the front and get in line to pay. I’m sure I have enough, but while I wait, I mentally add up everything in my basket and then count out my money so I have it ready to go. Miss Amanda may be making chit chat with every customer in front of me, asking about their kids and talking about the weather, but experience has taught me that it’s best if I’m ready to pay and leave quickly.
The line shuffles forward, and when it’s my turn, I unload my basket, keeping my head down and trying to ignore the feeling of Miss Amanda’s eyes on me. She don’t mean no harm by staring; I know most folks can’t help it. Neither of us say a word as I hand over my payment, she gives me back my change, and then I grab my bags and hustle out of the store, feeling a dozen eyes on me as I go.
The sun is beating down something fierce as I step back outside, missing the air conditioning of the store as soon as the doors swing closed behind me. I hitch my grocery bags up and get to walking home so I can fix myself a sandwich before I have to be at the bar for my shift.
Gravel crunches under my feet as I walk down the familiar road. I’ve been making this walk from our house to the grocery store probably once a week since I was seven or so. I would walk up and down the busier road that leads in and out of town, and gather up as many cans and bottles as I could, then I’d turn them in and use the money at the store. Mama did her best, but there wasn’t always food at home, so I learned to do for myself.
I look over my shoulder at the sound of tires on the road. I cringe when I see Bryson