Lord knows I love my friend, but her obsession with the lead singer of Grey Water is getting a teensy-bit ridiculous. Taylor is thirty-four years old, and she has posters of Grey Water plastered all over her bedroom wall like a thirteen-year-old. She stalks Asa Sharpe, the lead guitarist, like it’s her job to do so. I can’t even imagine the astronomical number of letters she sent him. Any time the band is within driving distance of Silver Falls for a concert, she makes sure she gets tickets. And every concert she goes to, she has to buy a new outfit.
“We just went shopping a couple of weeks ago. Wear one of the new outfits you bought.”
Her breath comes across the line with her huff. “I’ve worn them all already. I need something new. Besides, none of them are eye-catching enough.”
I grab a bag of granola and toss it in my cart. “Honestly, Taylor. When are you going to give up this notion of Asa noticing you?”
“When I’m old and gray. Or when the band stops doing concerts.” She pauses a moment. “Actually, I probably won’t stop even then. I’ll just stalk him the old fashion way.”
I laugh. “You’re crazy. You know that, right? This is Asa we’re talking about. He probably has a smorgasbord of women after him. Don’t get me wrong, you’re gorgeous, but we’re talking about models and actresses who pay hundreds of thousands of dollars to look perfect.”
“So? They’re all fake and synthetic. Asa’s smart enough to know that people like that aren’t real. What I can give him is real.”
I snort. “You keep on telling yourself that, and I’ll be here in the land of reality when you want to come back. You don’t even really know the man. Maybe he prefers synthetic.”
I stop by the produce section and put some granny smith apples in a bag before setting them in my cart. Bananas are set down beside them.
“Anyway, dream crusher, clothes shopping. Are you in or out?”
I point my shopping cart in the direction of personal hygiene. “Out, I’m afraid. The next couple of days are busy for me. You should ask one of your sisters to go with you.”
Taylor is a quadruplet. All of the sisters get along like best friends, but they couldn’t be any more different than if they weren’t related at all. Personality wise, that is. As far as looks, besides their different hair styles, most people can’t tell them apart.
“I might actually do that. Penelope mentioned the other day she needed a new pair of Jimmy Choos.”
“It’s settled then. I’ll see you at four on Thursday.”
With a promise that Taylor will bring pre-concert wine, we hang up. My head is bent, trying to wedge the phone in next to a little pocket mirror in my purse, when all of a sudden, someone rams into the front of my shopping cart.
“Hey, watch it ass—” My words die a quick death when I lift my head and spot the man with his cart in front of me. “Oh. Hello, Dr. Erikson.”
Did my words come out breathy?
“Jesus, Charlotte. I didn’t see you there. I apologize for running into you. You’re not hurt, are you?”
“No, not hurt.” I barely managed to get the words out past my suddenly dry throat.
I thought the man looked good in a suit and tie. It’s nothing compared to him in a pair of worn jeans, t-shirt, and a ball cap flipped backward. In all of my imaginings of him, he’s always looked so well-put together. Not this relaxed and casual. And don’t get me started on the five-o’clock shadow on his chin and cheeks. It’s long enough to make me wonder if he needs to shave twice a day to keep it smooth like it is every week when I come to my sessions.
“Are you okay?” He leans over the front of his cart toward me, his brows scrunched together. “You look like you’re in pain.”
I blink, coming out of my daze, and snatch my eyes away from the tight shirt that molds over his impressive chest, and look into his eyes. Damn the man for being so fucking mouth-watering.
“I-I’m fine.”
Come on, Charlotte. Get it together. You’re more refined than this.
“You sure?”
I clear my throat. “Yes.” Pulling up my big girl panties and composing myself, I offer him a smile. “Fancy meeting you here.”
I look down at the contents in his shopping cart and do a double take at one of the packages.
“Yeah, uh, those aren’t mine,” he says when he catches me looking.
When I bring my eyes back to him, I’m charmed to see that his cheeks have a pink hue. An embarrassed Dr. Erikson is just as hot as a composed one. “I’m not judging you,” I tell him.
“Honestly.” He looks inside his cart to the questionable item. “My grandmother asked me to pick these up for her.”