“No. Sorry.”
I continue down the aisle, but she keeps trailing me.
“Then where did you get that hat?”
My hat… I stop and turn my head toward her, opening my mouth to answer, but then I close it again. Have I done something wrong? Who is she?
“If you’re not with Motocross,” she asks again, “then how’d you get that swag?”
“Someone gave it to me.” I reply tightly and move up to the register, grabbing a bag of coffee beans on my way. “Is there a problem?”
“Just askin’，” she replies. “You don’t live here, do you?”
I almost snort. She sounds so hopeful.
I keep my mouth shut, though. I’m not sure if this is a small-town thing, but where I’m from we don’t dole out personal information just because someone is an uncontrollable, nosy-parker. She might think I’m rude, but in L.A., we call it “not getting robbed, raped, or killed.”
“She does live here, actually,” Noah answers her, coming up to my side. “She lives with us.”
And then he dumps an armful of crap onto the counter and puts his arm around me, grinning at the woman like he’s rubbing something in.
What’s going on?
But something catches my attention, and I drop my gaze to the pile of stuff he’s buying. I narrow my eyes as I count. One, two, three…
Eight boxes of condoms. Eight.
I shoot him a look, cocking an eyebrow. “You sure you don’t need the economy size they sell online?”
“Can I get it by tonight?” he retorts, looking down at me.
I roll my eyes, but I kind of feel like I want to smile or…laugh, because he’s such an idiot.
But I hold it back.
I look away, because I can’t respond with anything witty, and he just laughs, his demeanor cooling when he focuses his attention back on the woman.
“Step off,” he warns her.
She looks between him and me, and finally walks out as Sheryl starts to ring up our groceries. I pull a couple reusable grocery bags off the nearby rack and drop them on the counter, too.
I guess I was right. She was being rude, because Noah seemed out of patience with her on arrival.
“Cici Diggins,” he tells me, taking out the cash his father put on the table. “Gets real insecure when something prettier comes into town.”
Meaning me?
“She won’t be happy about you living with us,” Noah adds.
“Why?”
“You’ll find out.” He laughs and takes the grocery bags. “I’m going to have too much fun watching this play out.”
Watching what play out? I frown. I don’t like drama.
I let Noah carry the stuff outside as I run back to the pharmacy to pick up my prescription. I toss out the bag and slip the credit card-like pill package into my back pocket as I leave the store.
As I approach the bike, I see a huge backpack secured in front of the handlebars, and I let out a breath, relieved I wouldn’t have to try to carry this stuff and hold onto him on the ride home.
I flip my hat backward again and pick up my helmet, seeing Noah staring across the street with his helmet still in his hand. A slight smirk plays on his lips.
I follow his gaze.
Some guy—the same guy, I think, that came to the house with the group of bikers yesterday—sits at a table at a café with a bunch of others, he and Noah locked in a stare.
I thought he might be Kaleb, but he doesn’t look like he grew up milking cows and cleaning horse stalls. The guy is dressed in the kind of jeans that men who deep condition their hair wear, and he looks like his name is Blaine and his favorite type of girls are named Kassidee.
“You know him, right?” I turn back to Noah.
He nods, “Terrance Holcomb. Up and coming Motocross star.” And then he pulls me into his body, and a gasp lodges in my throat as he fastens my chin strap for me. “And he’s not looking at me, Tiernan.”
Noah gets close, his chest brushing mine and making tingles spread through my belly, and I suddenly go blank. Who were we talking about again?
He leans in, his breath falling across my face, and I notice a three-inch scar down his jaw as he gives me a wicked little smile.
“What are you doing?” I ask. Why’s he so close?
But he just smirks again. “Rubbing it in,” he answers. And then his eyes dart behind me to the guy across the street as he tightens my strap. “That you’re untouchable to him.”
Because why? I’m yours? Gross.
“You’re nauseating,” I grumble.