Seduction of the Mind

Grocery Aisle

Ethan hated supermarkets. Too much light, too much noise, too many choices pretending to be freedom. But anything was better than another microwaved box and another evening in a house that felt like a waiting room.

He parked far from the entrance, walked through the glass doors, and let the cool air slide over him. Rows of color stretched ahead—produce glowing like jewels under sterile lamps. He grabbed a basket and moved without hurry. Salmon, he thought. Real food, something with weight and taste.

The seafood section was quiet, a pale counter behind glass, the air tinged with salt and cold metal. He stood there, scanning fillets, when movement brushed the corner of his vision—a flash of bare skin, the quick percussion of sneakers on tile.

Then a voice, bright and threaded with amusement:

“Doctor Hale?”

He turned.

Vivienne Lancaster leaned against her cart like the aisle had been built for her. No jeans and oversized shirt now. Shorts cut high on her thigh, a black crop top that left an inch of taut stomach between fabric and skin. Her hair was down, falling in easy waves like a decision she didn’t question. No heavy makeup, just a gleam on her lips that caught the fluorescent light like a secret.

For a heartbeat, Ethan felt the world narrow to her outline. And that was the problem.

“Vivienne,” he said, his voice finding level too slowly. “This is… unexpected.”

“Is it?” she asked, tilting her head with a grin that looked casual until you studied the corners. “Do you come here often, Doctor?”

“Not really.” He shifted the basket in his hand. “Trying to remember what food looks like when it hasn’t been frozen twice.”

She laughed softly. It didn’t sound like her laugh in the office. This one was lighter, warmer, touched with something that made his ribs tighten.

“Domestic,” she said. Her eyes flicked down, then up again, catching on his left hand like a hawk on a mouse. “The ring suits you. I was starting to think all the good men were extinct.”

The words landed too close. Ethan felt the band press into his skin like a shackle. “My wife usually cooks,” he said, lying out of reflex, because the truth—nights of silence and reheated boxes—felt naked in her gaze.

“Lucky woman,” Vivienne murmured. “Or maybe you’re the lucky one.”

A man in a blue apron appeared behind the counter, asking if Ethan needed help. He shook his head without looking.

“Shopping for dinner?” he asked her, because silence felt dangerous.

“Something like that.” She rested her forearms on the cart handle, posture lazy but her eyes sharp. “Mostly stocking up. People get weird when they’re hungry.”

The way she said it—like a joke with teeth—made something low in his spine pulse.

They talked for two minutes about nothing: overpriced berries, how supermarkets smelled like bleach and regret, the war between oat milk and cow milk. He caught himself smiling more than he had in weeks. There was something in her tone, the cadence, the way she left just enough space between words for his mind to fill in the shadows.

It wasn’t just attraction—though he felt that like a wire humming under his ribs. It was the pull of someone who didn’t fit the blueprint, who made even small talk feel like a coded message. Vivienne intrigued him in a way no patient ever should. And that was the line, bright and burning: professional ethics.

He reminded himself of it now, silently, like a prayer he didn’t believe. She was his patient. She was dangerous. She was also twenty-seven, beautiful in a way that didn’t need permission, and standing so close he could smell the faint trace of citrus and something darker on her skin.

And God help him—he was enjoying this. Enjoying the easy rhythm, the teasing edge. Enjoying her.

Then she straightened, glancing toward the registers.

“Well,” she said, smile folding into something sly, “don’t let me keep you from your fish.”

“Vivienne—” He started, but the word wasn’t connected to a thought yet.

She winked—slow, deliberate, like a promise he hadn’t asked for—and pushed the cart toward the front of the store.

He watched her walk away. The shift was almost violent: the quiet precision of the woman in his office replaced by a glide that was all hips and certainty. A hunter’s prowl disguised as casual sway. Heads turned as she passed. Some men stared. One woman did too. Vivienne didn’t look back once.

Ethan stood there with his hand tight on the basket handle, the salmon fillets swimming behind the glass like something still alive.

His pulse ticked hard in his throat.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. And for the first time since the day began, Ethan wondered—not if this meeting was chance, but if anything about Vivienne Lancaster ever was.