Sleet Banshee by S.J. Tilly

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

MEGHAN

A pathetic sound leaves me as I toss my purse into the cart. How do I have 78 items on my grocery list?

I do a grocery shopping trip every week, which means I cleared the list 7 days ago. Scrolling through the items listed on my phone, I see the problem. I have peanut butter on here six times. Avocados - four times. Three types of coffee. I really have lost my mind recently.

Rolling my eyes, I mutter to myself - “You stupid bitch.”

A gasp startles me, and I spin to see a 70-ish year old woman selecting a cart from the row next to me.

“Oh, not you,” I say, using my thumbs to gesture to myself. “Me. I’m the bitch.”

She huffs again and jerkily swings her cart around, heading into the store.

“Okay, correction,” I grumble, “maybe you are the bitch. You old hag.”

Admittedly, I’ve been in a bit of a mood. I hate that I’m in this funk, and I know the source of the problem, but I’m not going to think about him. It’s embarrassing that I’m still so cranky when that stupid hockey game was nearly a week ago.

No. Nope. Not going there. This is my Casual Friday. I’m caught up on work so I’m going to spend my day baking and feeding my soul. Plus, tonight is going to be amazing because one of my friends is throwing a sex toy party. I’ve invited the usual suspects, but I’ve also invited Zach. He thinks that Izzy is going on another date and I am literally giddy about seeing the look on his face when he walks into the room to find zero dates and dozens of dildos. It’s going to be epic.

Wandering my way through the produce section, I occupy my mind by feeling and squeezing every fruit and vegetable I can get my hands on. This grocery store is my happy place, and I can already feel the tension leaving my shoulders.

The store is huge, glorious, a touch expensive, and I’m mentally prepared to be here for a while. It’s not my neighborhood store, but it’s worth the drive. And the deposit check from the Calligraphy Convention cleared, so it’s time to treat myself.

I’m sniffing the bottom of a pineapple when I feel a presence stop behind me. I’m not blocking the whole display. They can move around me, or they can wait.

I pick up another pineapple to sniff.

“What on earth are you doing?” the voice behind me says.

That voice. That sexy, masculine, piss-me-off voice.

“Keep walking, Dickhole,” I say as I pick up another pineapple. The last one was perfect, but I’m not turning around now.

At the sound of a familiar gasp, I glance over.

Oh great, the old hag is back.

“Look, ma’am, I already told you - you’re not the bitch. You’re not the dickhole either. But don’t push it.”

I hear a choke of laughter turn fake cough behind me.

“Well…” she sputters. “I have never…”

“I’m sure you haven’t,” I say. “This guy here is with the complaint department,” I toss a thumb over my shoulder. “Please take it up with him.”

I drop the good pineapple in my cart and strut away.