Knock Love Out (A Sensual New Adult Crossover Romance) (2 page)

He might not want to look at me, but as I toss the chain at him, I stare at Adam with every ounce of the wasted years of resentment I have tucked away.

“Eight years of marriage.”

Chapter Three

Normally, I would not wear this outside of my house.

As much as I appreciate strange men ogling—it also scares the crap out of me. But, here I am: tight-fitting denim shorts that are way too short, even
for
being shorts, white tank top that leaves little to the imagination. Not that I have a lot to begin with, but a little help from my friend the push-up bra goes a long way. I’m overly perfumed in the stuff Adam so eloquently referred to once as a
whore’s bath
.

Yeah, I kind of feel whorish.

Maybe there’s something to that—considering—I’m scoping out that same grocery market in Tangerine, thirty miles away from my usual store. Not only am I cheating on my local grocer, but I am also about to begin my search for
him
.

For a breath, I debate going back to my car and driving home. Driving to Adam’s office and surprising him. And for once, I decide to be selfish. I still feel the burn from the night before.
Years
.

I tug a silver shopping cart out of the corral and make sure it has a good set of wheels. Nothing worse than squeaking or thudding wheels when you’re trying to find a stranger to bring home for sex.

I need to focus on what I’m doing.

As soon as I step through the automatic doors to Valentine’s Grocery, I see
him
. The man from the other day. The green-eyed gem.

You can do this.

He is sitting on the back part of his checkout stand, where the groceries end up. Not too many people in here today. Monday morning. A few old ladies.

He is tossing jokes back and forth with a bag girl. He looks good when he smiles. Laughs. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a man look so genuinely happy. He’s young. Maybe early twenties? God, I am going to hell. On my next birthday I’ll be
thirty-nine.
Old enough to be this guy’s
mother
, by today’s standards.

He looks up from his conversation, still smiling, as I pass by.

“Good morning,” he greets me. “Welcome to Valentines.” So quickly his eyes dip, taking the smallest peek at my well-assisted cleavage.

I can’t reply. I simply duck my head and keep moving like a coward.

“
Lettuce
know if we can help you find anything,” he calls teasingly from behind.

The bag girl slaps playfully at his arm, giggly, “
Lettuce
! Oh … Cash … you’re
so
funny!”

Her voice is annoying.

But …
Cash
. I have a name. My first affair will be with a man named Cash.
First
? Does this mean I plan on having more than
one
affair? I’m going to hell.

My cart rolls along, moving to the produce section. I give a sniff to some strawberries and pick out a dozen limes. I’m stalling and I know it. Why didn’t I ask him for help? My fingers continue picking through the piles of fruit and vegetables. I grab a bag of potatoes. Good sale.

I reach for some cucumbers and hold each one up, examining it carefully, only to toss it back down in the pile and dig for another one. I flip it around in my hands, looking at the thickness of the skin and the texture when I give it a gentle squeeze.

Someone behind me snickers.

I glance over my shoulder to find
Cash
watching me.

“Is there something wrong with the cucumbers?” He asks, bemused.

“Just making sure I get a good one, Sir. I have been duped by many cucumbers in the past.”

He steps beside me and picks one up. “What’s wrong with this cucumber?”

“It’s too big. The big cucumbers are usually tasteless and rubbery.”

He drops it into the pile and picks up another one. “And
this
cucumber? What is wrong with it?”

“The skin doesn’t have a light green underside. It probably didn’t get enough sun. Again,
tasteless
.”

Cash picks up another cucumber. “And
this
one?”

“Nothing. That sucker is perfect.” I want to grab it from his hand, but he keeps a firm grip, not allowing me to do so without a proper explanation first. “The smaller ones are firm and crisp. Less time on the vine usually makes them taste sweeter. Not as many seeds, too. I hate picking them out of my teeth.”

He flips the cucumber in his hand, than offers it up. “I never knew that. Perhaps we should appoint you the
Cucumber Expert
for this department.”

“I already have a job,” I reply honestly.

Cash smiles. “
Me
too. So, stop rummaging through my bins of cucumbers, please. You’re getting me in trouble with management. They already think I slack off enough.”

“Well, I never meant to get you in cucumber trouble. My apologies.”

His eyes glance to my chest again, before he offers a wink. “No problem.”

Another clerk comes out with a cart full of produce boxes. He bumps it purposely into Cash’s hip.

“Stop hitting on all the hot girls and help unload the truck,
Cash
.” The man waves to me. “Sorry, pretty lady, but I gotta steal Romeo for a second or two.”

I feel flushed with embarrassment and compliments. I love this store!

“I was actually helping …” Cash looks to me, bemused.

Your name, stupid. “L-Lilla.”

He smirks. “I was helping
Lilla
pick out firm cucumbers.”

“Is that what you kids call it these days?”
Heath
, I spy from his name tag, opens a box and starts pulling out bags of potatoes.

Cash laughs. “Lilla has very strict standards for her cucumbers.”

“Then why the hell are you talking to
him
?” Heath nudges his chin toward Cash.

“Does Cash not know about small, firm cucumbers? I thought this was his department?” I ask innocently.

They both pause, staring at me. Heath bursts into laughter, tossing the empty box aside. The way Cash stares at me—my stomach is flip-flopping.

“Yeah, Cash knows all about small cucumbers, Lilla. Too much.”

A new man pops out from the back room. Cobalt blue long-sleeved shirt. Blonde hair. A gold name tag—fancier than the others. Older. He must be a manager.

He only offers a look of disapproval. Cash curses under his breath and the man goes back into the stock room.

Cash extends his hand to me.

“Pleasure talking cucumbers with you, Lilla. Unless I can assist you in any other way, I’m afraid I must be getting back to my
highly
important job of unpacking lemons and grapefruits.”

I place my hand in his expecting a shake … but … slowly he lifts my hand, brings it to his lips and kisses my skin, lightly. Cash pulls back, eyebrows knitted together as he thinks.

“
Angels
?” He guesses at my perfume.

I smile instantly. “Yes. It’s my favorite.”

“Mine too,” he whispers.

I am released.

Cash goes back to working, stacking the fruit in neat piles. He and Heath toss boxes at each other and joke around. I pretend I am picking out a cantaloupe, sniffing each one, smelling nothing. Just watching. Burning this into my memory so I can carry it home with me and replay it over and over.

Chapter Four

I want to scream for him to leave.

Adam has been hanging around the house for the last two days, doing nothing but getting in my way. Why the sudden impulse to take two days off from work? Why! He isn’t even doing anything other than making a damn mess everywhere he goes. A trail of empty Coke cans. Crumbs all over the counter. An empty box of cereal he has finished off and left behind. The God damn milk is still out! I grab the jug and press my palm to the plastic, feeling it has gone warm.

“We’re out of cereal,” Adam comments, coming into the kitchen, looking like a slob. No shirt and his jeans falling around his waist, showing the top of his torn underwear.

“Adam, wear the new underwear I bought and toss those in the trash,
please
?”

He scratches his belly. “These are already broken in.”

He’s digging in the fridge. “Man, do you ever shop? I can’t find shit to eat in this place.”

Are you serious? That’s all I
do
. And you sure as shit don’t look starved. Tubba-Wubba.

I close my eyes. “I always ask you what you’d like me to get you when I go shopping and you
always
say whatever I choose is fine.”

He closes the fridge. “I’m going to Danny’s house. Game is on, anyhow. His wife usually cooks us hot wings.”

Stab me in the heart,
prick
.

Good, leave. I wanted you gone.

I listen to the sound of his car starting. Watch through the window as he pulls out of the driveway.

The only thing worse than wanting someone gone, is wanting them here when they were. Present in the moment, you know?

You’re not alone, but
hell yeah
I
am
. I’ve never wanted someone’s arms around me while wanting to push them away so badly. I crave his affection, but I swear my whole body folds in on itself as soon as he gets within a few inches of me.

I must be going insane. Maybe it’s all the resentment taking over.

My feet wander the empty halls of this house. Again and again. Why did I wish for him to leave? I have nothing of great consequence to do now that he is gone. The fridge stares at me.

“
Nothing here to eat
,” I grumble, opening the door to an entire feast. You could live in this house for a month and eat like a king—literally—every day and night.

I swipe the car keys from the hook at the door and head to Valentine’s. I’m not dressed in anything special. Stretch-pants and an old worn-out tee. I’m not going there to find strangers to bring home for sex. I’m just … going. Something about walking the aisles and creating dishes in my head. I don’t know. It soothes me the way my husband won’t.

A group of Girl Scouts bombard me before I reach the entrance doors.

“Yeah-yeah. Here’s twenty bucks, give me the mint ones.”

They hand over a bag of cookies and thanks. Smiles all around. Yippee.

I walk through the automatic doors and grab a basket, placing my cookies inside of it. My flip-flops do that annoying thing after a floor has been waxed, making that super squeaky annoying-ass sound that seems to grab everyone’s attention and snickering. To make this the perfect ending to an already shit day—the store is playing Mariah Carey songs over the speaker system.

I stare at frozen pizzas with anger not even a crappy
frozen pizza
deserves.

Mariah’s “Heartbreaker” song forces me to remember that hideous time I swore to forget. Summer of ninety-nine …
why
did I think it was a good idea to rip the top banding off all my jeans and wear crochet tops? With matching hot pink nail polish?

Adam looked at me like I had two heads. Not quite what I had intended on. Maybe the hot-pink, glittery stilettos was a bad pairing.
Maybe
.

I move down the aisle, in search of my friend Jerry and his culprit.

“
Gimme your love …”
I begin to mumble, swaying side-to-side as I decide between Schweddy Balls and Baked Alaska.

“
Fight with lame chicks blow my day
—” I sing along. I can’t help it. “
Heartbreaker … you got the best
…” I stomp my foot, realizing what I’m doing. “Damn this song!”

It’s like it invades your better judgment and robs you blind.

I pick the pint of ice cream out of the cooler. Shweddy Balls. I’m going with that.
Genius whoever thought of that name. Schweddy Balls. Wish it had been me.

Next stop: Potato Chip Land.

“Gimme your love …”

I round the corner and seek out some Cape Cod goodness. Kettle-cooked chips. Uh, the bee’s knees! Right?

I pause, debating between cracked pepper, or salt and vinegar.

Glance to my left. “
Gimme your love …”
Slowly to my right.

The coast is clear. My flip-flops squeak terribly as I put myself back in the summer of ninety-nine. I’m rocking a pink crochet top and bad-decision-waist-cut-off-jeans. Those hot pink fingernails.

I start with just a little hip swaying. But shit, Mariah takes it to the bridge and I can’t seem to find my better judgment. It has blown away like the crochet top should have. This song should be considered some type of psychological warfare.

I lift my finger and twirl it above my head, screeching like a loveless banshee. I slide along the aisle, doing the stupid hip rolling thing that video taught me. I bend over and slide my hands up my legs and tip on my toes pretending I am wearing the equally-bad-choice glittery stilettos. At this point—let’s face it—I have zero respect or I give a crap, left to lose.

“
Why’d you have to run your game on me … I should have known right from the start that you’d … go ... and …”

I stop immediately.

My basket drops to the floor.

Hand over my mouth.

Heart beating faster than a jackrabbit in heat.

The Produce Gem grins from halfway down the chip aisle. “And I thought the cucumber choosing was detailed.”

Cash.

He was watching.

He saw me breaking it down.

He saw my invisible bad summertime fashion choices.

Ayn Rand taught me there’s only one thing to do in a situation like this. I raise my arms and bellow in utter haste, “
Who is John Galt
!”