Part 16 (1/2)
”No.” He looked away and shut his door. ”I was looking for something the other day.”
”What?”
”Something.”
He didn't want to tell her, fine. As long as he didn't turn into the backseat driver from h.e.l.l, he could keep his secret. And surprisingly, he was true to his word. He didn't complain at all about her driving. Not even when she tested him by coming to a rolling stop at a stop sign.
Whole Foods was one of those stores that took great pride in selling natural and organic foods to people who could afford it. The kind of place that had a killer deli and a kick-b.u.t.t bakery. The kind that Chelsea generally avoided if she was shopping on her own dime.
She grabbed a cart and they hit the beer aisle first. Mark loaded up on local brew. Everything from Red Hook and Pyramid to beers she'd never heard of. He grabbed bags of blue chips and organic salsa. He bought crackers and three kinds of cheese. Prosciutto and thinly sliced salami.
”Do you know how to make nachos?” he asked as they headed toward the milk case.
”No.” There were certain boundaries she didn't cross with employers. Slaving away in their kitchens was one of them.
”It can't be that hard.”
”Then you do it.”
”I tried it once.” He shoved a quart of sour cream and a gallon of milk into the cart. ”And I burned my hand and couldn't wear my glove for a week.”
”Poor baby.”
”You can say that again. That burn was pretty much the reason I didn't win the Art Ross Trophy in 2007.”
”The what trophy?”
”Art Ross. It's the trophy given to a player who has the most points at the end of the regular season. Sidney Crosby won it that year. Beat me by five points, all on account of nachos.”
She chuckled. ”Is that even true?”
He smiled and held up his bad hand like he was a Boy Scout again. He reached for bags of shredded cheese. ”It'll be easy. You won't even have to grate the cheese.”
”Sorry. Making nachos is above my pay grade.”
He dropped the bags of cheddar into the cart. ”What is your pay grade?”
”Why?”
”Just curious about what keeps you coming back every day.”
”My deep and abiding commitment to people in need,” she lied.
He shook his head. ”Try again.”
She laughed. ”I get paid fifteen bucks an hour.”
”Fifteen bucks an hour to answer e-mails and drive my car? That's easy money.”
Spoken like a typical pain in the backside. ”I have to put up with you and now Derek.”
”Derek's an eggbeater. You should make human resources give you hazard pay.”
He must not have been told about the bonus. She wondered whether she should tell him. The Chinooks' organization hadn't ever told her not to mention it to anyone. She didn't think it was a secret, but something held her back. ”Maybe I will if he ever connects with my s.h.i.+n.”
”First he has to stay on his feet.” He smiled, and it spread to the tiny creases in the corners of his eyes.
”h.e.l.lo, Mark.”
He looked over his shoulder at the tall woman behind them. His smile fell. ”Chrissy.”
”How are you doing?” The woman had platinum-blond hair and turquoise eyes. She was stunning, like a supermodel, but like a lot of models, she wasn't perfect. Her nose was a little too long. Like Sarah Jessica Parker in The Family Stone. Not the Sarah Jessica of the s.e.x and the City movie. That Sarah Jessica was way too skinny.
He spread his arms. ”Good.”
While Chrissy checked out Mark, Chelsea checked out Chrissy's vintage Fendi satchel with the cla.s.sic Fendi clasp in black. The purse was so difficult to find, it was practically an urban legend.
”You look good.”
”Still with the old man you married?”
Ouch. That sounded bitter, and Chelsea figured that Chrissy must be a former girlfriend. She was the sort of woman Chelsea would expect to see with him.
”Howard's not that old, Mark. And, yes, we're still together.”
”Not that old? He's got to be seventy-five.”
”Sixty-five,” Chrissy corrected.
Sixty-five wasn't old unless you were thirty-five. Which was how old the woman looked. But who was Chelsea to judge? She might have married an old guy to get her hands on that vintage Fendi too.
The woman's attention turned to Chelsea. ”Who's your girlfriend?”
That someone would mistake her for Mark's girlfriend was humorous. ”Oh, I'm-”
”Chelsea,” he interrupted her. ”This is Christine, my ex-wife.”
Wife? She remembered Mark had said something about his ex-wife getting a nose job. She wondered how big it had been before. ”It's nice to meet you.” She stuck out her hand.
Chrissy's fingers barely touched Chelsea's before she dropped her arm to her side and turned her attention back to Mark. ”I heard you were in a rehabilitation hospital until last month.”
”I got your flowers. Very touching. Does Howard know?”
She adjusted the strap of her Fendi bag. ”Yeah, sure. Are you still living in our house?”
”My house?” He slid his palm to the small of Chelsea's back. She jumped a little at the weight of his hand. The warmth of his touch heated her skin through the cotton of her blouse and spread tingles up her spine and across her b.u.t.t. This was Mark Bressler. The guy she was paid to work for. She shouldn't be feeling anything. ”I'm moving as soon as I find a new place,” he added. ”Chelsea's helping me out with that.”