mind, because I’m waiting for Mitch to join me. Eventually, I just grab a cart and head for the aisles. It’s busy, but he can find me. Or he can text me if he can’t.
But I find everything I’m looking for and still no Mitch. It’s been at least fifteen minutes. No way did it take him that long to find a freaking parking spot. Frustration rippling through me, I yank my phone out of my bar purse—yes, I’m still stuck with it—and call him.
“Where are you?” I ask when he answers.
“I had to take a business call,” he says, his voice casual, like no big deal. “I just got off the phone.”
“I’m finished with my shopping,” I tell him as I pull into the self-checkout line.
“Perfect. I’ll pull up in the front and pick you up,” he says, like that was his plan the entire time.
I’m tempted to growl into the phone, but I keep myself in check. He’s being kind of—annoying. Why wouldn’t he shop with me? Do grocery stores scare him? What’s the big deal?
“Give me a few minutes. I’m still in line,” I mutter.
“No problem. I’ll wait for you,” he says cheerily.
I end the call, pleased that I sort of hung up on him, which is silly. Why am I so annoyed? Or is it why is he being so annoying?
This entire afternoon has slipped right into the toilet. It’s such a bummer.
Within a few minutes, I’m exiting the supermarket clutching a shopping bag, and Mitch pulls that giant truck right up beside me, rolling his window down so he can flash me a smile. He has really nice teeth.
Oh, who am I kidding? He has really nice everything.
I scowl at him as I round the front of the truck and open the door, climbing inside.
“Hey!” I hear someone shout from in front of the store. “Isn’t that Mitchell—”
The truck roars away from the curb, sending me backward, the tires squealing. I send Mitch a look, but he’s not even paying attention to me. He’s gripping the steering wheel so hard, his knuckles are white, and his jaw is tight. I can see a ticking muscle there.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine.” He’s distracted. Clearly.
I decide to remain quiet. Maybe he had a bad phone call about work. Maybe he’s stressed out. Why did that person yell his name right before we left the store? I’m sure that’s Mitch’s full name: Mitchell. Not that he’s ever told me that. It’s such an old-fashioned name. I like it. It’s very manly.
Did he see someone he knows? I’m not sure how, considering he’s not from Las Vegas, but what do I know? I want to ask him about it, but tension is radiating off him in big, heaping waves, so I leave it alone.
We can talk about it later.
Once we arrive at his apartment, I go right into prep mode. Mitch leaves me be, settling in on the couch and turning on the TV. He puts it on ESPN, and they’re giving some sort of recap about football. The moment they mention the Raiders, he changes the channel.
Huh.
Fifteen minutes later and with a giant mess all over his beautiful kitchen, I’m finished.
“It’s ready,” I call to him as I plate the food.
“Want to eat in here?” he asks, indicating the living room.
“Sure,” I say, because really, where else are we going to eat? He doesn’t have a table in here.
I bring him his plate, steam still drifting from the very hot omelet. He gazes at it gratefully for a moment before he glances up at me. “Thank you,” he says appreciatively.
I hand him a fork and a paper towel he can use as a napkin. “You’re welcome. You need something to drink?”
He waves at the water bottle sitting next to him. “I’m good, thanks.”
I go back to the kitchen and grab my plate, along with my fork, napkin and a bottle of water, before I make my way back to the couch. Once I’m settled in, I see that his plate is freaking empty.
“You ate all your food,” I say incredulously.
“It was delicious.” He pats his very flat stomach.
“I made you a giant omelet.”
“And I appreciate that. It was good.” He leans over and drops a faintly greasy kiss on my lips. I’m guessing that’s from the bacon he stuffed into his mouth at a rapid pace. “Thank you, baby.”
“You’re welcome.” I hand him a piece of bacon, which he doesn’t hesitate in taking it from me. “I’m