Role Playing(46)

She was quiet for a long second.

“She said she’d not only grocery shop for me,” he said, feeling his cheeks heat, “but she’d cook for me, and clean my house, and help me get around. Make sure I was, uh, well taken care of.”

He felt kind of like a dick for putting it that way. Deb was probably only being kind. That said, his Spidey senses were on full alert around her, and while he would not and could not be rude to her, he didn’t want to be put in a position where he had to tell her he really wasn’t interested in her.

“Don’t tell me,” Maggie joked. “She volunteered to help you bathe too.”

He winced. She had mentioned in passing that it was “tough to shower” when you broke your foot, and that they were “both adults, it wasn’t a big deal.”

“Shut the front door!” Maggie breathed as she pulled into the parking lot of the supermarket, her tone one of shocked glee. “She did!”

He rubbed his hands over his face. “Sorta, yeah. And I threw you under the bus by insisting I already had help. I’ll pay you if you want. But please don’t make me have to be mean to this nice lady because she wants something I am not interested in giving to her.”

Maggie was still smirking. “I’ll protect you, you big soft teddy bear,” she teased.

He grinned back. Strangely, this felt right. It felt like hanging out with the guild—just easy, just comfortable. Just friends. Only it was in the real world.

Weird.

She parked the car, and the two of them strode slowly toward the door. She grabbed a cart. “Okay, Mr. No List,” she said, matter-of-factly. “What are we grabbing, then?”

“You’re right, I should’ve made a list,” he admitted. “I’m so used to just driving over to a restaurant or drive-throughs, I barely have any staples.”

“And I don’t know how long you’re going to want to be on your foot cooking either,” she pointed out. “Actually, do you even cook?”

He shrugged. “This and that,” he said. “Nothing gourmet or anything. I used to cook more, back in the day.”

“You’ve got a microwave,” she mused. “Frozen stuff?” He must’ve made a face, because she laughed. “Yeah, I don’t like that shit either. Don’t even like frozen pizza, honestly.”

He pushed the cart, leaning on it like a walker as they ambled through the produce aisle. “Foolish Pie’s pizza is pretty good,” he noted.

“I don’t go into town itself that often, and usually not at dinnertime,” she said. “And I live too far up the Falls for them to deliver. How about salads?”

“Kinda cold for salads,” he noted, “but yeah, that’s pretty simple.”

She grabbed salad makings, studying the prebagged stuff for freshness, then grabbing some add-ons: cranberries, candied pecans. “You okay with feta? Or chèvre?” she asked, not looking at him.

His stomach grumbled. He’d only had a cup of coffee that morning, which was probably a mistake. “Yes to both.”

“We’ll grab some when we get toward the deli,” she mused. “And we’ll grab a rotisserie chicken. Then you can have a simple salad with chicken, cranberries, pecans, and feta. What kind of dressing do you like?”

“With that? Maybe a light vinaigrette?” he suggested, his mouth watering. “Damn. That sounds really good.”

“I should make it more, myself,” she agreed, “but it’s edging into winter, and I’m not as much of a fan of salad outside of summer. Now, I’m all about soup.”

“I like soup too,” he said.

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup, maybe?”

They went back and forth like that, wandering the aisles, getting food. He was by necessity going to have more at-home meals than he’d had in the past two years, he realized . . . and he was looking forward to it.

“Do you eat like this? All the time?” he found himself asking.

She shrugged. “I cooked more when Kit was home,” she answered. “I liked making more experimental stuff. Indian food. Vietnamese food, of course. Mexican food. His father didn’t really like ethnic food, so once he left, I went a little wild.”

It was the first time she’d made any mention of her son’s father, despite talking fondly at length about Kit himself during their lunch the previous day. It piqued his interest, but he got the feeling now wasn’t the time to ask. He really, really hoped there would be more opportunities to delve deeper, if he just bided his time.

They eventually got him enough food for a week, and she promised that she’d help him after that, but insisted that “next time, buster, you’d better have a list.” They’d bantered back and forth easily. Hell, he’d had more fun grocery shopping with her than he’d had at the football party, or even having breakfast with Riley, by a long shot.

They drove back to his place, and she helped him put all his groceries away. By which he meant she snarked “Oh, sit down before you fall down” and then moved like a whirlwind, putting away stuff with a ferocious efficiency that was startling. She was done in minutes, it seemed, and he stared in awe.

“I put away your food, dude,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I didn’t perform trachea surgery.”