Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions Chapter 88

The drive back from the farmer’s market is a strange kind of quiet, the type that feels more comfortable than awkward, even though neither of us is speaking. Mike's driving, but I can feel the tension between Harley and me. She's sitting there, beside me, her hands comfortably clasped together on her lap, and the world feels too small with her so close. Every so often, my gaze drifts to her, and I can’t help but notice how her thoughts seem just as tangled as mine.

I want to reach for her. I want to touch her and reassure her in some way. But after everything that’s happened, I know pushing too far, too fast, might send her running. I’ve learned *that* much from her body language already.

She looks...unsettled. No, more than that—she’s on edge. I can see it in the way she avoids meeting my eyes, how she leans back in the seat just a little too far, like she’s trying to put distance between us after our sexual tension at the picnic table, even though we’re right here, close enough to touch.

I’ve been here before. Not with her, not like this. But I’ve been on the edge of something dangerous before—something I couldn’t control. And I refuse to push her into the abyss, even if it means waiting—something I despise doing.

Mike clears his throat as if sensing the shift, but he doesn’t say anything. His usual sense of humor seems to have dissipated, replaced by a knowing calm.

"Heading home?" he asks after about five minutes, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror.

Harley’s voice is the one that breaks the silence. "Actually, we’re heading to my local grocery store, Mike," she says, and the gleam in her eyes makes it clear she’s enjoying this. This strange, normal part of her life that she’s trying to pull me into.

Mike almost chokes on the lemonade she handed him when we got back to the car, at her announcement. I can’t blame him, though. A grocery store isn’t the kind of place I’d ever be caught dead at...but Harley? She seems right at home in a place like that.

She’s still grinning, but I can see her trying to rein it in, like she’s afraid to get too comfortable around me, to let herself enjoy this moment. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but I know one thing for sure: she’s not as unaffected by me as she pretends to be—case in point, when we were feeding each other back at the farmer’s market.

“Are you serious?” Mike asks, catching his breath. "You’re taking him to a grocery store?"

Harley chuckles. "Why not? It’s a normal thing to do, right?"

I lean back, studying her face. That’s the thing about Harley. She has a way of making the most mundane, everyday things seem like an adventure. And as much as I’d rather be anywhere else, I can’t deny that the thought of spending time with her—doing something as trivial as grocery shopping—feels oddly...*right*.

The SUV pulls up to the store, and as Mike parks, I find myself struggling with an urge to touch her. But I hold back, unsure of what exactly she wants from me.

She steps out first, her hips swaying as she walks toward the entrance. I follow her, my footsteps heavy and deliberate, but I make sure to stay a few feet behind, letting her take the lead.

The moment we walk in, I realize how out of my element I am. The smell of freshly baked bread, the sounds of kids running up and down the aisles, the PA system announcing current specials, the fluorescent lighting above—it’s all so...ordinary.

But it doesn’t *feel* ordinary when she’s with me. Every step she takes, every glance she throws over her shoulder at me, feels like a step into unknown territory.

She hands me the pushcart, and without thinking, I take it from her. In the first aisle, she suddenly bends over to grab a pack of pasta, and her jeans hug her curves in a way that makes my heart rate spike, and I have to look away to avoid making a fool of myself in public.

Harley walks ahead, and I push the cart with ease, following her, not wanting to get too close, but also unable to stay away from her and the hold she has over me. She fills the cart with things I can’t even begin to identify—bags of chips, spices, cheeses, jars of jam with labels I can’t pronounce.

I feel out of place here, but I don't mind. Not when I get to watch her. She’s talking to herself as she picks through cans, making comments about her favorites, and I can’t help but smile internally at the way she’s completely at ease in a place like this.

"Isn’t it great?" she asks at one point, her voice light and teasing. "You really get to experience it all. The full package: deli meats, organic everything, the smell of fresh coffee wafting through the air. This is where it all happens. I mean, sure, you probably prefer steak and lobster, but..."

"I’m not complaining," I cut in, but she just raises an eyebrow, clearly amused at my unintentional sarcasm.

Her hand brushes against mine when she grabs a jar of mustard, and I feel a surge of heat course through me. It’s an innocent touch, a casual thing, but it’s enough to stir the hunger that’s still simmering just beneath the surface from earlier.

We stop at one of the farthest aisles, and Harley stands on tiptoe, trying to grab a bottle of fabric softener from the top shelf, and I don’t hesitate for a second. I step up behind her, my body pressing against hers in a way that sends a wave of heat through me.

“Let me help,” I murmur, my voice low. I can feel her breath catch, and I can’t help but smile at the effect I have on her.

With my left hand on the shelf next to her shoulder, I reach past her with my right one and grab the bottle she’s after. My chest brushes against her back, and for a moment, neither of us moves. Her hair brushes against my jaw and neck, and I’m fighting every instinct I have not to pull her closer.

“Thank you,” she says, barely above a whisper.

The touch lingers longer than it should, but I eventually step away slowly, letting her gather herself. It’s like we’re both holding our breath, unsure of where this moment will lead.

We finish up the rest of our shopping in silence, but there’s that tension between us again, one that I can’t seem to ignore for long. I can tell she’s feeling it too—this subtle push and pull, like we’re both testing each other’s limits, seeing how far we can go before one of us breaks.

Finally, we make it to the checkout line. As we stand there, the young blonde cashier behind the counter gives me a flirtatious smile, and I can see Harley’s posture stiffen slightly. It wouldn’t be apparent to anyone else, but I can *feel* it, the way she’s suddenly more tense, more aware of the space between us.

I don’t engage with the cashier, even as she tries to flirtatiously ask me if we would prefer paper or plastic. I don’t need to. Because, like always, when she’s in my vicinity, my eyes stay glued to Harley. And when I see jealousy flicker in her gaze—a small, fleeting thing—it’s enough to have my undead heart skipping a beat.

When the total comes up, I swipe my card before Harley has a chance to reach for her wallet, and I can feel her glare, but I pay it no mind. As far as I’m concerned, Harley won’t ever need to pay for anything again. Not as long as I’m around. Even if she *did* catch me off guard at the market and paid for everything there. I’ll be fixing that soon enough, though.