The Imposter Marin Montgomery (rom com books to read TXT) 📖

She wants to protest he’s been saying this for months, but it’s a useless argument. It’s a sensitive topic. She knows his kids have had a hard go of it, considering they lost their mother.

Watching Robert walk ahead and grab a carton of milk in the dairy aisle, she’s aware of how time has aged him. His shoulders aren’t as straight as they used to be; now he has a slight stoop from not only time but stress and heartbreak.

Both of them have shouldered a lot in the preceding years.

Deborah maneuvers the cart, absentmindedly tossing items in until the cart groans as one of the wheels catches on an endcap display, upsetting the cereal boxes. An overworked and underpaid grocery clerk stops stocking a shelf to gawk at the commotion. Deborah hurriedly fixes the capsized cardboard and keeps moving.

His voice appears back beside her, a calming presence. “It’ll all be okay.”

“I don’t know.” Deborah sniffs. “Can we make this work?”

“Of course.”

“I need you now more than ever.” She gently strokes his thumb.

“I’m here for you, Debbie.”

After deciding to make a stew later, Deborah adds beef bouillon cubes and chuck steak to the cart’s contents. Then, realizing she didn’t grab all the ingredients on her initial walk through the produce aisle, she glances up at the fluorescent lighting and scans the colorful array of fruits and vegetables. She likes to watch the misters, the whoosh of the jets as they spray the produce at different times, the cleanness and freshness of this area in particular.

The sudden thud startles her as a plastic bag with a white onion lands in the cart.

“You read my mind.” Deborah smiles at Robert.

“I know exactly what you need.” Robert gives her hand a squeeze before glancing at his watch. “Unfortunately, I’ve gotta get back to work. Talk to you later?”

Nodding as Robert disappears from sight, she’s amazed at the way he vanishes like a long-ago memory, without a lingering whiff of spicy cologne in his wake.

It’s better than the alternative, the smell of whiskey and sweat she swore her husband couldn’t scrub off his skin, no matter how hard he tried.

After moving aimlessly through the aisles, she heads to the conveyor belt to check out.

As she’s loading her groceries into the back seat of the ancient Ford, Deborah is at first giddy, thinking of having Robert all to herself.

When she finishes stacking the last of her reusable tote bags, she slams the door. Trying to be a good citizen of the world, she goes to return her cart to the designated corral.

Her hands pause on the warm metal as goose bumps rise on the back of her neck, signaling that someone is watching.

Deborah can feel eyes on her.

Trying to be subtle, she pretends to search for a place to return the cart so she can find out who’s watching her. Using her hand to shield against the direct sunlight, she’s able to slide her gaze across the parking lot.

Sure enough, a man’s intently staring at her from the comfort of his vehicle. She tries to place where she might know him from, whether it be at church or around town, but there’s nothing memorable about his burgundy truck or his license plate. The plate belongs to a different county, and though she knows most of the people here from the neighboring towns, he doesn’t strike her as a familiar face.

His hairy arm lazily hangs out the window, and she notices a snake tattoo wrapped around his bicep.

Anxious about walking her cart to the stall since it means passing him, she shifts from foot to foot, hesitating. It’s not illegal for people to sit at the grocery store, she berates herself. Or look out the window.

Walking as briskly as she can with a limp, she passes him, noticing the red bandana wrapped around his scalp. She wonders if he has a shaved head or is going bald underneath the faded fabric, or maybe another tattoo is stretched over his skull.

She shoots him a dirty look, just in case, just so he doesn’t get any ideas.

His voice carries out of his open window, but Deborah doesn’t bother to stop, sure he’s hollering at someone else in the lot. Maybe his buddy or wife is in the store shopping for groceries, and he’s their ride.

As she darts her eyes toward him, he yells something, but Deborah’s not close enough to hear, nor does she want to backtrack and lessen their distance. Something about him makes her nervous.

A loud honk startles her, and tripping over her clogs, she stumbles on the pavement and goes down hard. The same aggressive driver gives another sharp beep as the woman driving swerves around her.

Sighing, Deborah wipes her hands, dirty and indented from the pebbled ground, on her pants. By now, her cart has drifted into the center of the lot. Deborah mutters something unsavory, forgetting about the man suspiciously watching her for a second.

It’s not for long, since a powerful thud draws her attention from her skinned knee to over her shoulder.

His burly figure has exited his truck, and his vast body barrels toward her. If he wasn’t a wrestler in his formative years, she’d be surprised.

When she landed on the ground, her purse spilled some of the contents and loose change, and breath mints are rolling on the cement, glinting in the sunlight.

The runaway cart has now settled against a parked car.

“Ma’am?” The mustached stranger squats down to Deborah’s eye level.

Clenching her hands, she whispers, “What do you want?”

He reaches a hand down for the strap of her handbag and swoops it up. “Just helping you with this.”

“Not today, you aren’t.” Deborah screams, frantically waving her hands at a couple walking by, “Help! Someone, please help me!”

The thirtysomething man runs over to her side, concern etched on his face. “Is there a problem?” His female companion has already yanked out her phone, ready to place an emergency call if needed.

“This man”—Deborah points at the apelike man—“tried to mug me.”

“What in the hell?”