As if he’d not just knocked the breath out of her with those words and left her feeling weak-kneed, he released her chin, turned away, and began pushing the cart again.
Jessi stood in the aisle, gaping after him. Then she broke into a sprint and caught him again. Closing a hand on his forearm, she tugged him to a stop. “You mean, you’re not just stuck with me? You like me?” She wanted to kick herself the moment she blurted the stupid question. Puh-thetic, Jessi, she winced inwardly. That was worse than the “I carried a watermelon” line from Dirty Dancing.
His gaze was dark with some unfathomable emotion as he stared down at her. She stared, trying to determine what it was. It was an emotion she’d seen several times before, and at the oddest moments.
It was regret, she realized abruptly.
A subtle yet bottomless sorrow in those beautiful, darkly lashed eyes.
But what was he regretting, and why at this moment, as opposed to any other? It made no sense to her!
Suddenly he smiled, and the sadness was vanquished by whisky heat. “Aye, Jessica, I like you. And I’m not just stuck with you. You fit me here, woman.” He thumped his chest with his fist.
Then he shook her hand from his forearm and pushed off with the cart again. Jessi watched him move down the aisle, all sleek animal muscle and dark grace.
Wow. He wasn’t a man of many words, but when he used them, he certainly used the right ones. You fit me here. You are the exception to everything.
Crimeny.
It was how she’d always thought a relationship should be. People should fit each other: some days like sexy, strappy high-heeled shoes, other days like comfortable loafers—but always a good fit. And if you cared about someone, they should be the exception to everything; the number-one priority, the one who came before all others.
He was halfway down the aisle from her now, plucking a can from the shelf—her primal hunter/gatherer procuring food by modern means, she thought, with a soft snort of amusement. As she watched, he examined the can intently, read the ingredients, then returned it to the shelf and chose another, repeating his thorough study of it.
The contrast between his rough, tough-guy appearance and the domestic act he was performing did funny things to her head.
She had a sudden, breathtaking vision of a dark-haired little boy sitting in the seat of the cart, laughing up at Cian, grabbing at his swinging braids with chubby little fists, while his daddy inspected the ingredients on a jar of baby food. Her mind’s-eye picture of sexy, strong man with beautiful, helpless child made something soft and warm blossom behind her chest.
Just then, two women sashayed around the corner, toting baskets on their arms. They were about her age, model-slim and very pretty.
When they saw Cian, their eyes widened and they did double takes.
Her soft and warm feeling popped with the abruptness of a balloon bursting.
As they made their way down the aisle toward her—the nerve of them!—they turned around three more times to check out his butt.
His butt. Like it was public property or something.
Her hands fisted. A thundery little storm began to brew.
Unfortunately the women ruined the beginnings of a perfectly good brood by smiling at her and whispering in a sisterly, conspiratorial manner as they passed, “Heads-up, sweetie, major eye-candy ahead. Check it out.”
As they moved into the next aisle, Jessi blew out a gusty sigh. They’d just had to be nice.
Crossing her arms, she glared at Cian’s butt. Did it have to be so perfect? Couldn’t he have been a little shorter? Maybe he should cut his hair. No, she amended hastily, she loved his hair. It was sexy and silky, and she really wanted to see it without all those braids in once. Not to mention, feel it sweeping her bare skin.
Something in her tummy did a flip-flop. It wasn’t a comfortable feeling. It was a scary feeling. The dratted green-eyed monster had gotten her again. She felt downright possessive of him. Like he was hers or something. What was happening to her?
Cian turned just then and glanced back at her. His eyes narrowed. His hot gaze swept her from head to toe. He wet his lower lip, caught the tip of his tongue between his teeth, and flashed her a wicked smile.
His expression could not have more clearly said, The moment I get through doing what must be done, I’m going to be all over you, woman.
She brightened. “Okay,” she said, nodding agreeably. It was looking like it might just turn out to be a banner day in Jessi St. James’s world, after all.
He tossed his dark head back and laughed, his gilded-scotch gaze glittering with lust and unconcealed masculine triumph.
He was still laughing when he disappeared.