Page 36 of Beautiful Sin
“Almost there,” Wei announced cheerfully, like we were on a fun family trip and not a mobile torture chamber. “Unless you two need a moment to… work something out?”
Just kill me now, I thought.Or better yet, kill Wei. Slowly. With his own fancy coffee grinder.
I shot him my best death glare, which only made his grin wider. The supermarket loomed ahead like the gates of hell, andI tried to ignore how Jaxson’s fingers drummed nervously on the steering wheel.Just grocery shopping, I reminded myself.How bad could it be?
The universe, as always, was about to show me exactly how bad.
The supermarket loomed before us like some kind of relationship battlefield, with produce as landmines and other shoppers as unwitting spectators to our drama. Wei, the traitor, immediately sentenced me to cart duty.
“You push,” he said, handing me the cart like he was bestowing a great honor instead of a prison sentence. “I’ll direct. Jaxson will fetch.”
Perfect. Now I’m basically chained to this thing while Jaxson picks out vegetables and looks unfairly attractive doing it. “Oh, look at me, I’m Jaxson Sinclair and I can make selecting a bell pepper look like a Calvin Klein photoshoot.”
I tried to maintain a safe distance, pushing the cart like it was a protective barrier between us, a metal shield against inappropriate feelings. But Jaxson, being Jaxson, had other ideas. He caught up to me in the produce section, and suddenly his hand was on mine on the cart handle, his chest practically pressed against my arm, his scent wrapping around me like an invisible embrace.
The moment his skin touched mine, that strange warmth I’d felt last night spread from the contact point up my arm and through my chest. It wasn’t just body heat—it was something more intense, like his touch activated something beneath my skin that had been dormant until now.
Breathing. Breathing is important. Remember how to do that, Lan. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t hyperventilate in the middle of the produce section. People will stare.
“We’ll need some ingredients for burgers,” he said, his breath warm against my hair, sending shivers down my spine that had nothing to do with the refrigerated section we were standing in.
I licked my lips nervously, then wanted to kick myself for such an obvious tell. I might as well have a neon sign above my head flashing “NERVOUS WRECK.” “Are we having burgers for the party?”Small talk. Normal. Totally normal. Just two stepbrothers discussing meat products. Nothing to see here.
He smiled down at me, and my heart did that stupid flutter thing it always did, like it was trying to escape my chest and throw itself at his feet. “Mm-hmm. Burgers. Meat skewers. All the good stuff.”
“You’re going all out, aren’t you?”Stop noticing how good he smells. Stop noticing how his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Stop noticing everything about him that makes you want to climb him like a tree.
“Since we don’t do a lot of parties. And this one is important for Colt. We missed out on doing one for your birthday, too.”
“I don’t want one, anyway. I’m too old for that.”I’m definitely old enough for other things though— No. Bad brain. Back in your cage.
He ruffled my hair, his fingers lingering just a fraction too long, and I nearly combusted on the spot. That warmth spread from his touch again, more intense this time, like sunshine soaking into my skin. If spontaneous human combustion was real, I’d be a pile of ash in aisle three. “You’re never too old for a birthday party.”
Then he was off selecting vegetables, moving through the produce section with the confidence of someone who actually knew what kale was for, and I was left to watch him like some kind of lovesick stalker. Every woman in the produce section seemed to be having the same problem. They all did double takes as he passed, eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and perfectjawline, and I felt that familiar jealous knot in my stomach, hot and tight.
Great. I’m jealous of random women in a supermarket. I’ve officially hit rock bottom. Next stop: jealousy toward mannequins wearing his brand of cologne.
I tried to escape with the cart, aiming for the cereal aisle where there were fewer opportunities for accidental touching, but of course, he noticed. Eagle-eyed Jaxson, always aware of where I was. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” I stammered, caught like a deer in very attractive headlights. “Just… exploring the wonderful world of grocery store layout design. Did you know they put the most expensive items at eye level? Fascinating stuff.”
Next thing I knew, his arm was around me, trapping me between his body and the cart, his chest warm against my back. “Let’s get some chips.”
This is cruel and unusual punishment. This has to violate some Geneva Convention about torturing your stepbrother. Article 5: No unfairly attractive stepbrothers shall trap their younger siblings against shopping carts while smelling like heaven and looking like sin.
Wei finally materialized like some kind of relationship-drama-sensing demon, arms loaded with snacks that probably contained enough sodium to preserve a small whale. One look at my probably tomato-red face, and his lips twitched with poorly hidden amusement.
“I’ll wait outside,” I blurted, ducking under Jaxson’s arm like it was on fire.Which, honestly, my skin felt like it was. Third-degree burns from just being near him. I should sue.
The parking lot wasn’t exactly a safe haven, but at least there weren’t any produce-related excuses for Jaxson to touch me here. I perched on the hood of his car, probably looking like a sulking teenager.Which I’m not. I’m a mature adult having acompletely reasonable crisis. Adults have crises all the time. It’s practically a hobby.
When they finally emerged with enough groceries to feed a small army, I helped load the trunk while performing an Olympic-worthy routine of avoiding eye contact. Not that it helped—I could feel Jaxson’s gaze burning into me like a physical touch, raising goosebumps on my skin despite the warm day.
Stop thinking about touching. Stop thinking about hands. Stop thinking about how those hands felt on your?—
The drive home was another exercise in tension, with Wei humming cheerfully in the front seat like he wasn’t orchestrating this whole torture session. He kept “accidentally” adjusting his seat, pushing it back until my knees were practically touching the driver’s seat. Every time I shifted to get comfortable, he’d sing-song “Everything okay back there, Celestial Peach?” while making meaningful eye contact with Jaxson in the mirror.
Back home, I suffered through ten minutes of putting away groceries, doing my best impression of a ninja—swift, silent, and definitely not brushing hands with Jaxson every time we reached for the same bag. Which happened with suspicious frequency. Either the universe was conspiring against me, or Jaxson was deliberately reaching for the same items I was. Given my luck lately, probably both.
