Page 169 of Mending Hearts
The grocery store parking lot is predictably imperfect. There are two photographers near the cart return pretending to be absorbed in their phones, and another by the entrance whose camera strap is too visible to be accidental. They notice us immediately—no doubt having followed the SUV.
Ollie notices too. His posture shifts almost imperceptibly with awareness.
“You good?” I ask him quietly.
“I’m fine,” he says.
It’s automatic.
I wait, and he exhales slowly. “I’m okay,” he corrects. “Just didn’t realize how quickly I’d get tired of being watched buying food.”
That honesty settles something in me. It’s not panic. It’s not spiraling. It’s fatigue. That I can handle.
“Yeah,” I say. “That part’s bullshit.”
The corner of his mouth lifts faintly.
We step out together. The cold bites through my coat immediately, wind sharp against my face. Vinny exits on the opposite side and adjusts his stance slightly, giving us space but keeping sightlines clear.
I don’t drop Ollie’s hand. If anything, I hold it firmer.
A camera clicks. A voice calls my name. I don’t turn. Rachael’s voice lives permanently in my head when it comes to press:Don’t feed it. Don’t escalate it.
The automatic doors slide open, releasing a wave of warm air and the scent of produce and bakery sugar. Inside, fluorescentlighting replaces gray sky. The ordinariness of it hits me harder than I expect.
People with carts. A kid whining about cereal. An elderly couple debating apples.
It feels almost sacred.
“Mission,” I murmur, grabbing a cart before Vinny can.
Ollie raises a brow. “Mission?”
“Anniversary dinner.”
He looks at me like I’ve proposed something absurd. “It’s pasta.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “It’s anniversary dinner. I’m not insulting you with pasta.”
His brows lift. “Oh? And what are you making instead?”
“Weare making something my mamá taught me,” I reply, already steering the cart toward a different section. “Real food. Not your sad athlete carbs.”
That stops him. He studies me, something softer flickering behind the humor. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, warm enough to take the edge off the cold that’s followed us all morning. “Okay,” he says. “Now I’m intrigued.”
We start in produce. I pick up an avocado and squeeze it with confidence I absolutely do not possess.
“You don’t know how to pick one,” he says immediately.
“I absolutely do.”
“You’re interrogating it.”
“I’m assessing structural integrity.”
