Author's note: this fic previously appeared on Uncharted Waters. Harriman Nelson does not belong to me. I'm just having a bit of fun with him. This is based loosely on actual events.
Eight Items or Less
Slowly strolling through the maze of displays in the produce section, wondering just what she was going to fix for dinner, her eyes flitted over the overripe cantaloupe, past the prepackaged strawberries and the bizarre-looking star fruit and landed squarely on "him". Well, the back of his head to be more precise.
He was looking at the Gala apples, picking out two and then placing them into the plastic bag.
His short hair had a marvelous reddish brown tint that always caught her eye and made her look twice. She couldn't see his face from where she stood but he certainly didn't look too bad from behind: nice broad shoulders and a firm backside, something her college roommate once told her meant muscular thighs. She had to laugh at that thought. Fran would certainly know. She was a leg girl all the way and couldn't abide a man, no matter how good looking, with "bird" legs, as she called them.
"Lady," the burly produce man began with an exasperated sigh, "if you're going to squeeze the melons like that, buy 'em first."
Blushing bright red, she withdrew her hand. "Sorry," she managed to mumble before moving on to the bananas. Looking up again, she noticed the focus of her attention disappearing down the refrigerated foods aisle.
Randomly grabbing a bunch of bananas and tossing them into her hand basket, she headed off in his direction, bypassing the milk, eggs, butter and orange juice in her quest.
With my luck, she thought, he'll have a nice bright, gold wedding band-or no wedding band and a unibrow, crossed-eyes and three good teeth.
Spying him next to the bin of imported cheeses and looking over the vast selection, she smiled inwardly. If his profile is any indication, this is going to be one fine looking man.
Walking purposefully in his direction, silently praying that he wouldn't leave before she got there, the realization that Monterey Jack was probably the extent of her knowledge of imported cheeses suddenly hit her.
What was the name of that cheese Fran liked? Stiltskin? No, he was that mean dwarf in that children's story. Stipton? No, he was that pothead in high school. Stilton, that's it!
Pleased that he hadn't moved, she positioned herself directly across from him and was quickly rewarded with her first glimpse when he looked up momentarily and smiled.
Blue. His eyes are blue.
Groping around the lumps of cheese, she tried desperately to look like she knew what she was looking for all the while casting furtive glances at him. Noticing first and foremost the lack of a wedding ring, her eyes took in everything from the ginger colored hairs peeking over the last button on his navy polo shirt to the crisp pleats in his tan trousers.
God, he's got the most incredible chin. And those hands! Remembering something else her college roommate had once said about a man's thumbs, she immediately noticed his and let her gaze drift lower.
If Frannie's right, oh, my!
He was off again, strolling casually down the long, broad corridor while absently twirling the bag of apples.
She watched him go, momentarily mesmerized by the vision he presented as he walked away, then tossed the stilton into her basket and began her slow pursuit.
Stalking, that's what I'm doing. I'm stalking a completely innocent, but incredibly handsome man through Albertson's.
While he stopped to peruse the freshly baked breads, she tried to be coy and pretended to be interested in the refrigerated bin full of prepared quiche. It was only recently that she had ever had quiche and up until the time she told the waiter at the rather posh restaurant that she would like to order the "quickie", she never knew how to pronounce the word. Thank goodness both her date and the rather mature server had a sense of humor.
Passing rather nonchalant glances towards the targeted man, she quickly discovered that in her moment of revelry, he had taken flight. Looking up and down the nearly deserted aisles, he was nowhere to be found.
Some stalker I am.
Dejectedly, she glanced at her list and began to quickly backtrack for a few missing items before making her way to the cards aisle. Her whole purpose for this visit wasn't so much to buy groceries but really to pick up a card and some wrapping paper for an upcoming wedding. Food was an afterthought; the man was a bonus.
As she scanned the aisles in search of wrapping paper and cards, she headed towards the check-out lanes, hoping to catch one last glimpse of the man before he walked out of her life forever. Still, he was nowhere to be found.
With a silent, oh well, and mention a twinge of regret, she located the aisle and quickly headed towards the end where the sheets of wrapping paper were situated. She had a rather large gift and knew it was going to take quite a bit to wrap it so it was going to have to be a roll. Luckily, there was a nice choice of wedding paper. Selecting a small, simple, white card, she started to turn away when the hearty sound of laughter on the next aisle carried over.
Remembering that she needed to pick up a bottle of wine for the dinner party next weekend, she tried to recall the name of that nice Italian she and Fran had fallen in love with on their recent trip to Italy. She did mean the wine but the thought of that gorgeous hunk that had been their guide at the Coliseum did make her giggle. Of course, this was California and an Italian wine might be hard to come by- and so, apparently, were gorgeous hunks.
With her basket in one hand and the roll of wrapping paper in the other, she turned down the next and last row in the store and froze in her tracks. There he was.
"And he just stood there, covered in white foam from head to toe."
"What did you do?"
"Tried like hell to keep from laughing."
He was speaking to another, taller, older man in a voice she would later describe to Fran over that bottle of wine as "deeply orgasmic- the kind that makes your knees go weak and melty even if he's doing nothing more than reading off the names in the phone book".
She was disappointed when the two men wandered off down the aisle, said something she couldn't quite hear then headed off in different directions. She saw her man glance at the long line before him and then start to his left. He was ready to leave and she had to act quickly. Juggling the long roll of wrapping paper while grabbing the first bottle of wine she saw, noting that she would apologize later to Fran for something called "Boone's Farm", she was in hot pursuit.
And there he was: standing in the eight items or less line with no one behind him.
Racing to get to the line, smiling when she beat out an elderly woman pushing a wobbly cart, she took the position behind him. She was disappointed that the line wasn't longer but when she looked past the man and saw the mass of groceries the harried woman with the two small children had placed on the belt, she wasn't about to complain.
She was close to him now. So close she could see how the light caught the sheen in his auburn hair and highlighted the subtle wave; so close she could catch the scent of his aftershave and see the expensive leather shoes he wore; so close she could see the muscles of his back beneath the clinging fabric. It was all she could do to keep from reaching out and touching him.
Be calm, be cool. Don't make an ass out of yourself now.
She was observing the items he had placed on the belt: a bottle of wine, cheese, bread, and apples, and envying the lucky individual who was going to share his company, when the old lady in line behind her suddenly bumped her leg with her cart, causing her to turn sharply. In one horror-filled, highly embarrassing second, she realized that the roll of wrapping paper she held in her right hand had poked him firmly and squarely in the behind. She wanted to die.
He turned slightly, an amused grin creasing his ruggedly handsome features.
"I am so sorry," she said quickly, her face flushing bright red as she tried to put the errant wrapping paper into her other hand, only to drop it on the floor and watch it roll away.
She bent over to pick up the roll at the same time he did, her forehead knocking against his chin with a dull thud.
Rubbing her head, feeling the temperature in the store rise by several degrees, she felt horribly embarrassed. Not only had she inadvertently molested him, now she had assaulted him.
Could this get any worse?
"This seems to be causing you all kinds of problems," he said, two thick fingers stroking his chin as he handed the offending roll of wrapping paper to her.
She stood there speechless, gaping at him as she took the roll from him.
As he paid for his purchases and picked up the bag, he gave her a parting smile and a wink before disappearing through the automatic doors.
She watched him go then dreamily turned her attention to the cashier. Glancing up at the row of magazines just above the register screen and seeing the face staring back at her from the cover of LIFE magazine, she nearly fainted.
Quickly adding the magazine to her purchases, feeling her heart race as she tried to curtail her excitement, she handed over her money, accepted the change and her bag and darted out the door.
Sitting in her car, frantically leafing through the magazine until she found the cover article, she shook her head in disbelief.
The man she had stalked around the grocery store, the man she had goosed with a roll of wrapping paper, and koshed with her forehead, was none other than the Admiral Harriman Nelson.
And he winked at me!
The End