His Plump Mate (Book 1: The 'His' Series) novel Chapter 175

**Chapter 174: Supermarket Crisis**

**Cecilia’s POV**

Sebastian’s gaze was fixed on my face, his expression shifting from mild amusement to something more serious as he processed my teasing reply. I could see the flicker of disappointment in his eyes, a fleeting shadow that passed before they softened once more.

“If you ever change your mind,” he said, his voice low and gentle, “make sure I’m the first to know.”

I felt a rush of warmth at his words, but I remained noncommittal. After all, this entire exchange was a mere exercise in hypotheticals.

Instead of responding, I boldly grabbed his tie, tugging him down to my level, and kissed him with a fervor that spoke volumes—like it was the only language we truly understood.

By the time we returned to the office, the sun was dipping below the horizon, signaling the end of the workday for everyone else as well.

Sawyer’s expression was a mix of irritation and disbelief. It was as if he was contemplating the most efficient way to murder us both with a single glare.

“You might as well have not come back at all!” he muttered under his breath, the words sharp and laced with frustration.

Sebastian, however, remained unfazed by Sawyer’s ire. He wore that infuriatingly calm demeanor that made it seem like no one could touch him.

I, on the other hand, was drowning in a wave of awkwardness and guilt.

“Sawyer, this afternoon I—” I started, eager to explain.

“This afternoon you accompanied the Alpha to meet with clients, I know,” he interrupted, his tone flat and devoid of any hint of empathy. He didn’t elaborate on which clients, leaving the implication hanging in the air.

His eyes locked onto mine, conveying a clear message: You two better coordinate your story.

My heart swelled with gratitude for Sawyer’s unspoken support. What an incredible ally he was in this tangled web of our lives.

Once he walked off, I couldn’t help but pull out my phone and order a year’s supply of his favorite coffee—small-batch, single-origin Ethiopian beans—to be delivered to his apartment. It was the least I could do for putting him through this trauma.

After diligently applying the medicine Dr. Han had prescribed for three days, I was relieved to find my foot was nearly healed. I could walk without any pain, a small victory that felt monumental.

Sebastian had been my steadfast companion, accompanying me to the sports medicine clinic each evening to help change the bandages. His charm and sociability were surprising; he even engaged in speed chess with Dr. Han after my treatments.

In those three days, I was convinced Dr. Han had developed a bit of a crush on Sebastian. Every time we left, the doctor’s expression was one of genuine sadness, as if he were bidding farewell to a cherished friend.

He would gaze at Sebastian with hopeful eyes, practically pleading for him to return for another game of chess the following day.

Dr. Han even suggested that I should “consolidate my treatment” and continue applying the medicine for a full month.

During our visits, Sebastian had a knack for extracting information from Dr. Han without making it obvious. The doctor ended up divulging everything about my father, including secrets I had never known—like how Dad had secretly purchased another extravagant orchid behind Mom’s back.

It was a laid-back Saturday afternoon when I drove out to DIA to pick up my parents after their weeks in Hawaii.

As they emerged from the baggage claim, they looked sun-kissed and overpacked, each of them hauling at least three bags as if they were determined to bring a piece of the island back with them.

“Mom! Dad!” I called out, jogging toward them, excitement bubbling within me.

As I reached for one of Mom’s bags, she smacked my hand away with that practiced mom-reflex that was impossible to counter.

“Don’t even think about it. These are way too heavy. Let your father throw out his back instead,” she said with a smirk, her tone playful yet firm.

Classic Mom.

She looped her arm through mine as we made our way toward the parking lot, her fingers wrapping tightly around mine as if I were still five years old and prone to wandering into traffic.

Once we reached the car, I tossed the keys to Dad and slid into the back seat beside Mom. It was just how we operated—she liked to supervise, and I preferred not to drive.

“Let’s swing by the grocery store before we head home,” she suggested, adjusting her seatbelt as if preparing for a flight. “I want to cook something special tonight.”

I leaned into her shoulder, suddenly feeling as though I were ten years old again. “If it’s not your garlic shrimp, I’m filing a formal complaint,” I teased, a grin spreading across my face.

She chuckled, patting my cheek in that affectionate but mildly insulting way that mothers seem to perfect. “You little glutton. Haven’t you been eating at all?”

“I’ve been feeding myself, thank you very much,” I defended, sitting up straighter and puffing out my chest. “I’m thriving in my independence. Flourishing, even.”

She shot me a look that clearly communicated her skepticism.

And honestly? I didn’t blame her.

Either way, the child was clearly holding a grudge.

Cecilia and her parents had already walked past his car, making their way toward the supermarket entrance.

“Xenia, Daddy will buy you more chocolate. Stay in the car and be good. I’ll be right back,” he instructed his daughter, then turned to the driver. “Watch her and don’t let her run around.”

With that, he exited the car, his movements swift and purposeful, determination etched across his features.

Inside the supermarket, Cecilia pushed the cart alongside her parents as they browsed the aisles. Her mother, Esther, headed toward the fresh food section while directing her husband and daughter to pick up some soybeans.

Cecilia and her dad turned into the organic section, only to find a tall man approaching them.

“Well, hello again, Miss Moore,” Zane Locke greeted with a warm smile, his voice smooth and inviting. “Fancy running into you here.”

Cecilia was taken aback. “Hello, Mr. Locke,” she replied, her surprise evident.

His gaze shifted to her father. “And this gentleman is…?” The question carried an unspoken weight that left Cecilia feeling slightly uneasy.

“My father, Van Dyck Moore,” she replied, though the question struck her as oddly unnecessary.

Still, since their paths had crossed, she introduced them. “Dad, this is Mr. Zane Locke.”

Her father responded politely, but there was a flicker of wariness in his eyes, a protective instinct that was hard to miss.

Meanwhile, Esther had finished selecting beef and shrimp and noticed them chatting with someone.

She approached, ready to introduce herself with a smile—until she recognized who it was.

The moment she spotted Zane Locke, all color drained from her face.

Her shopping basket slipped from her fingers, sending fresh produce scattering across the polished floor.

The sound of tomatoes hitting the ground echoed in the sudden silence that enveloped them, leaving an air of tension that was palpable.