“If it’s processed food, I promise I won’t say anything. I’m off the clock.”

She arches an eyebrow. “Really? I can’t see there being off hours from a lecture with you.”

“Ah yes. It’s a Capricorn thing, right?”

Another winning smile sneaks out. “Ha! You caved and looked yourself up, didn’t you?”

“No.”

I might have. Briefly.

“You totally did.” She shifts the basket behind her back, wincing at how it’s straining her shoulders. “Well,” she says, performing an awkward sideways shuffle that keeps the basket hidden. “This has been fun.”

Because her eyes are locked on me, Bea misses the free-standing tiered baskets of snacks. Tripping into it, she stumbles forward, but I lunge and catch her wrist before she hits the floor. When I pull her my way, momentum sends her tumbling into my chest.

“Shit,” she yelps, her hands landing on my waist as she steadies herself.

A wave of her scent washes over me, and her warm hands burn through my clothes. I swallow roughly, begging my body to cool down. It’s been a year since anyone’s touched me. That’s all this is.

“Are you all right?” I ask.

Straightening, she steps back quickly and nearly slips on one of the spilled snack bags.

I catch her again, this time by the elbow. “Easy.”

“Right.” She nods, breathing unsteadily. “Right. I’m okay.”

“Good.”

Our eyes hold for a long moment before Bea glances away. My gaze follows hers and freezes on the sideways basket, its contents spilled across the store’s laminate floor.

A dozen cupcakes. Midol. Overnight pads. Two cans of Chef Boyardee. And—

Sweet Christ. That’s the largest bottle of lube I’ve ever seen.

Bea yelps again, diving for her goods. I bend in time to recover the cupcakes and the Chef Boyardee as she shuffles the items she’s clearly most self-conscious about deep into the basket.

“Thanks,” she says, quickly taking my handful, trying unsuccessfully to cover the lube, pads, and PMS meds. “Well, this has been humiliating—”

“Bea.” I step closer, dropping my voice. “I’m a physician. I’m not going to have a conniption at the signs of your menstrual cycle.”

She turns bright pink. “Oh God, Jamie. You had to say it.”

“What? It’s a perfectly natural . . .” She’s turning pinker by the second. Embarrassment floods me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I only wanted you to know—”

“It’s okay,” she blurts. “I’m not sure why I got embarrassed. I’m not ashamed of my period. I just get flustered around you—” She takes a slow breath in, then exhales. “It’s fine. Let’s just . . . move on.”

Before I can respond to her, both our phones blare in tandem. Mine’s a crisp trio of rotary telephone rings. Bea’s is M.I.A.’s “Bad Girls.”

We unearth our phones and stare at them.