ANYTA'S POV
The bell above the bodega door gave a tinny chime as we stepped into the fluorescent hum of the shop.
After the heavy, suffocating tension in Clay’s penthouse, the smell of grilled meat and floor cleaner felt strangely comforting.
I couldn't stop stealing glances at Clay, who was now in a plain black t-shirt and jeans, his hair still slightly damp under his backwards cap.
He moved through the narrow aisles with a lazy, effortless grace that made my chest ache as I felt my face heat.
The two bottles of Corona I had weren't helping my emotions stay muted.
Every time Clay looked at me, his eyes dark and simmering with amusement or fun, I had to remind myself to breathe.
“You’re actually going to eat that?” I asked when we stopped in front of a stall, gesturing to the massiv
