I swallow. He’s apologized three times, and each time is worse than last, his voice leaning toward that dark sound that wraps around my heart and squeezes.

“Sorry means nothing,” she mutters before whipping her cart around and speeding away until she’s around the corner, the tap tap tap of her heels loud as she picks up her pace on the next aisle over.

“Blaze?” I call out, not intending to, but it’s a reflex.

He hasn’t responded, and I forget my cart and walk up to him. I put my hand on his shoulder tentatively, not wanting to startle him. “Hey.”

He turns slowly, and I wince at the haunted look in his blue eyes, his usually sun-tanned face white.

His gaze locks with mine, and then it drops. “I wondered how long it would take you.”

“You knew I was listening?”

“Figured. You flew right past me in the cookie aisle and never looked up. We always seem to find each other.”

I grimace. “I didn’t want to see those frosted cookies with the sprinkles. Ah, sprinkles, my old nemesis.” I shake a fist in the air, but he doesn’t even crack a smile.

“I smelled your perfume when you hit the liquor aisle. Figured you were back there somewhere.”

“Dude, that is not perfume. I need to tone down the peppermint body wash and the essential oils I diffuse.”

He looks down at his hands. “Don’t. I like it. Reminds me of Christmas.”

I huff out a laugh. “Just call me jolly old Mrs. Claus. All I need is a big red velvet dress with white fur. Maybe I can get a side gig at Macy’s during the holidays.”

He raises his head and looks at me, his brows lowered. “You’re too hot for Mrs. Claus. If anything, you’d be one of those little elves with the pointy hats and green leggings.”

Oh.

It feels as if we’re having a nice conversation. I clear my throat. “Who’s the lady with the attitude? I’ll go after her if you want. I have a mean right hook. My brother Mattie taught me. The trick is how you hold your fist.” I demonstrate. “See? Knuckle is out.”

“Beating up old people? That’s not your style.” He shakes his head and reaches into his cart, takes out a beer, opens it, and takes a long swig. A grimace flits across his face.

“Blaze—”

“Trust me, don’t ask. It’s not a pretty story.” He pauses. “Besides, you were never that interested in my past before. You were too busy lusting after my hot bod.”

“I see you’re feeling better.”

“Not really. I think I’m going to throw up.” He holds up the bottle of Fat Tire beer. “This piss is not what I need, but my throat is dry…” He leans a little too far to the right, in danger of crashing into the cold storage, and I grab his elbow.

He takes in a deep breath, his chest rising as he gasps for air. “Shit, Charm. Don’t feel so good. Do you…can you…” Before he can finish his sentence, his eyes roll back in his head and he slips straight down to the floor of aisle 9.

FML.

My knees drop to the floor next to him, cradling his head in my lap, which thankfully didn’t hit the tile as hard as it could have. I say his name a dozen times, my tone escalating with each one. I give him a tiny slap and then another one that’s hard. “Blaze! Wake up, you…you big oaf!”

One of the Piggly Wiggly cashiers comes around the corner. With acne and braces, she can’t be more than sixteen. She drops the box she has in her hand. “Oh my God, did he slip and fall? Should I call the manager?” Her eyes flare. “Is that Blaze Townsend? Do you think he’ll sign something for me? I’m a big fan.”

I’m about to tell her to stop talking and call an ambulance when he speaks, his voice low and husky.

“You’ve been wanting to slap me for months,” he mumbles as he struggles to push up on his elbows. “What the hell is an oaf? Who talks like that?”

“It just came to me. I think it means crazy big guy. Seemed appropriate. Are you okay?”

“Just woozy. My workout was intense today, and I haven’t had dinner.” Red appears on his face as he looks around and sees the wide-eyed girl who’s gaping at us. His eyes lock with mine. “Damn, this is embarrassing.” He rubs his cheek and huffs out a small laugh. “Nice slap.”

I smirk. “Sorry. Don’t be embarrassed. Once a lizard got in Vampire Bill’s cage and he eviscerated it piece by piece. All I could do was scream, and when he ripped its head off, I keeled over like a piece of fluff in the wind.”

“I never took you for the kind who passes out at the sight of blood. Nothing scares you.”

Yeah. I’m the girl with the rules to protect her heart. That’s not brave. It’s insane and a little ridiculous, but it keeps me steady and focused on my goals—or it used to.

“Pfft. There’s plenty you don’t know,” I say.

“I know.”

I let that pass and help him stand. He weaves for several seconds but seems to find his balance, shoving back hair that has fallen in his face.

“Nice highlights,” I say before thinking.

He gives me a surprised look. “Dillon did them.”

I snort. “OMG. That’s crazy.”

He gives me a ghost of his usual smile, and I guess he’s still finding his equilibrium. “You should have seen it: me and him in a tiny bathroom with a box of bleach, a hair net thingy, and these little gloves that wouldn’t fit on either of our hands. It’s a wonder we didn’t pass out from the fumes.” He puts a hand to the bridge of his nose and presses.

“You sure you’re all right? I’m supposed to report any accidents in the store and fill out a form,” says Cashier Girl.

He waves her off. “I’m good. Just didn’t expect…” His words trail off and he glances around as if expecting the older woman to reappear.

“She’s gone,” I say.

“Thank fuck. I need out of this place.” He grabs hold of the bar on the cart and clings to it.

Cashier Girl pulls out a walkie-talkie, never taking her eyes off us. “I better call Steve—that’s my manager. He’d want to know you fell. Just last month a baby opened a jar of strawberry jelly and made the biggest mess. His momma kept yelling that he might be allergic. I had to file a report and everything. Plus, it looks like you opened a beer and drank it. That’s stealing, if you think about it, and we didn’t even check your ID—”

Seriously? I pull a ten out of my purse and push it into her hand. “This is for the beer. Run along—and don’t move my cart. I’ll be back.” I turn toward Blaze. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Cashier Girl takes a step forward. “Wait—does this mean he’s not going to sign something for me? I have some paper in my locker!”

Geeze. Is every female alive in love with him? “No, he’s not.”

I grasp his upper arm, even though I think he’s fine, and we head down the aisle just as I hear the girl radioing her manger to let him know two carts were left in aisle 9.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mrs. Wilson getting in line to check out, and I purposely lead him in a different direction.

We walk side by side, my body acutely aware of his, the sound of his breathing, the movement of his legs, the tingle of heat from his hard muscles under my hand. I drop it from his arm. He’s fine, Charisma. He doesn’t need you hanging on him.

The cold wind hits us in the face, and he looks up to get more air as we make our way across the parking lot. He walks to his truck, which is parked just a few rows away from my car.

He stops at his driver’s door, leans back, and tucks his hands in his jeans. Relief is evident on his face. “Thanks for that.”

I nod. I should go, should just leave him be and go back in the store to finish getting my groceries…

“You’re sure you passing out was just a reaction to her? You’re not sick? I—I can give you a ride home?”

What the hell am I saying?

I can’t handle him next to me in my car. Plus, I’d probably offer to walk him up to his dorm. Where we had sex.

He gives me a small smile. “Not sick. I feel better.”

“Tell me who she was. Like you said, we didn’t really do a lot of talking…”

He arches a brow. “I recall you saying, Yes, yes, yes, just like that you handsome, talented sonofabitch.”

I laugh; I can’t help it. “I never said you were handsome. Who was she?”

“Well, damn, if I’d known all I have to do to get your attention is pass out, I would have been falling at your feet all day long.”

I roll my eyes. “Fine. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Liar.”

“You’re a liar.”

He stiffens, and tension fills the air. “Never lied to you. Not one time.”

“No, you were brutally honest. Maybe that was worse.”

We stare at each other, and the only sound is the cars zipping past us on the highway out in front of the store.

He gets this faraway expression on his face, and his gaze lowers. “Carry-Anne was seventeen when my dad ran a red light and hit her. She was the perfect little Alma girl, prom queen, sweet as pie, and the mayor and his wife’s pride and joy. My parents, on the other hand, were trailer park trash who lived to get their next fix. Carry-Anne died at the scene. My dad was stoned. That’s pretty much it in a nutshell.”