Ella backed up her shopping cart. Her other option was to ask Striker to move so she could get by. She realized it was childish, but she didn’t want to say another word to him.
Ella got past the chips and snack aisle and almost to the pasta aisle before she heard him calling her name. Ignoring it, she kept on walking. She’d found a lone box of spaghetti in her cupboard and a jar of tomato and basil sauce. Usually she kept four or five boxes of pasta on hand. It was quick and easy. Not to mention she was a bit of a carb freak. She could go the rest of her life eating nothing but pasta and bread, with the occasional slice of pizza thrown in. Ella turned down aisle five, her mind on pasta, not the six-foot-three heartbreaker who called her name again.
A large hand touched her forearm when she stopped. “Hey,” he said.
Her traitorous heart picked up its beat. Ella ignored the stupid organ and reached for some fettuccini, dislodging Striker’s hand in the process. “Hi.” She kept her eyes on the pasta selection.
“How was your trip home?”
Friends and acquaintances asked questions like that. Not people you’d had sex with and thought you might spend the rest of your life with before they up and walked out of your life.
“Long.” She selected a new pasta sauce she’d never tried and then picked up two she loved.
“Are you around for lunch later? I took a personal day. If I don’t use them before the end of December, I’ll lose ’em.”
Wow, he had a set of brass ones, as her grandfather would say. He’d broken up with her and now wanted to have lunch? “Nope. Excuse me.” She moved around him so she could grab a box of lasagna noodles. “I’ve got a really long list.” She pointed to the paper she held. “Enjoy your day off, Striker.”
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