揥hy am I not surprised you can抰 follow simple English? Are you one of those guys who paid five hundred dollars for some poor geek to boost your grades too??
He glares at me like an angry bull.
揥atch your step, Big Mouth. You know nothing about me. Let抯 make a trade and be on our merry way for the sake of our blood pressure.?He gives me a slow, assessing look, his eyes sliding up my body with a weight that makes me shiver. 揧ou抮e on a bike. Don抰 tell me you couldn抰 use a few hundred bucks.?
揙rrr I could be so loaded I run a green power company and need to look the part,?I throw back. 揚lus, biking helps blow off some steam. You should try it sometime.?
Scowling, he grabs at my white paper bag again.
I shift away at the last second, slapping his big hand away.
Yeah, I抳e had it.
Narrowing my eyes, I glare back at him, reach into the bag, and pull out the warm roll. In slow motion, I bite off a massive chunk.
I chew it as loudly as I can, smacking my lips like war drums.
The most mouth-gasmic 揗mmmm-mmm-mmmm!?I抳e ever mustered in my life rips out of me.
Then I drop the bite-marked roll back into the bag, lick my fingers, and wipe my hands unceremoniously on the front of my jeans.
揝ee? Not everything is for sale. No deal.?
God.
I抳e seen my share of selfish men, but this one takes the cake梠r rather, he doesn抰 take the cinnamon roll I won抰 let him have. The tantrum brewing in his face when I make it crystal clear he抯 not getting this roll would scare the best kindergarten teacher pale.
His jaw clenches.
His bearish brown eyes become brighter, hotter, louder. I can hear them cursing me seven ways from Sunday.
It抯 not fair.
When he抯 majorly pissed off, he抯 a hundred times hotter than he was at first glance.
His eyes drop to my lips and linger for a breathless second.
His gaze feels so heavy I hug myself, trying to hide from the intensity of his scorned-god look that feels like it could turn me into a salt pillar.
I want to say something, to break the acid silence with a joke, but I抦 not sure it抯 possible.
Should I remind him he抯 an entitled douchebag?
That he抯 pretty freaking lucky I didn抰 spit fifty bucks?worth of roll at his stupid grumpy face?
It doesn抰 matter, though.
I don抰 have time to come up with the perfect f-you before he抯 turning his massive back to me and stomping off, muttering quietly.
He rounds the corner of the coffee shop and keeps going without a single look back.
Jeez Louise. Shouldn抰 a guy with that much money and even more ego have a ride?
Whatever.
Not my problem.
I need to get to work.
Rent won抰 wait for my one-year anniversary personal hell, or encounters with strange men who get in my face about giant pastries.
I take off for the office with three quarters of my Regis roll remaining. I抣l enjoy it for its baked perfection, but keeping the precious cargo from Hot Shrek gives me just as many endorphins as the sugar rush.
Captain McGrowly and his mantrum pissed me off so much that I pedal like my life depends on it. I reach the office with time to spare, devouring all the frosted cinnamon goodness before I force myself to deal with the rat race inside.
Just a few more weeks and you抣l be out of here. You抳e got big plans. You can do this.
Later, I repeat the mantra over and over when someone who earns twice my salary makes a mistake that throws the whole project into chaos.
Typical day at my overworked, underpaid copywriting position.
I抦 at work past sunset in a desperate bid to fix it.
I wish Cinnamon Roll Luck and the high of my little victory would抳e lasted longer.
Instead, I抦 back in my craptacular reality where the only poetry I write is an ode in sweat to fixing everybody else抯 problems.
I抦 not even upset.
I抦 not.
It抯 after nine o抍lock and dark when I drag my exhausted butt back to my shoebox apartment. With any luck, I抣l be putting in my two weeks?notice soon.
Stay strong, I tell myself.
There抯 no harm in making a good last impression on my way out the door to greener hills.
I stop to check the mail before heading off to another lonely evening. Courtesy of men who are self-absorbed asshats who make a habit of tripping over their own dicks.
I put my key in the mailbox and turn it.
A pile of junk comes cascading out. I manage to catch most of it before it hits the floor.
Anything that抯 obviously an ad goes straight into recycling. That leaves five envelopes. A census notice, a flimsy note from a Portland literary journal I can already sense is a rejection, a sympathy card pretending it抯 just a sweet hello from Grandma, and?Oh, no.
I stuff the last envelope in my purse and lean against the wall, trying not to scream.
揌ey, Dakota! What抯 wrong? Tell me you抮e not just getting home,?a bright voice says.
揙h, hey.?I look over my shoulder as Eliza walks over with her usual disarming smile. 揧eah, late night. It抯 whatever. I just have a few more weeks left.?
揌ave you had dinner yet??she asks. Before I can answer, she says, 揕et me grab my mail, and then you should come over and try out my new brew.?
揑t抯 pushing ten o抍lock, Eliza. Pretty late for coffee.?My stomach rumbles, though, reminding me I haven抰 eaten yet and I have another early morning tomorrow.
揕ive dangerously.?
I laugh as my stomach makes the decision for me. Coffee and tasty treats sound more appetizing than another lump of frozen franken-fettucine from my freezer. It抯 also a good way to delay the inevitable.
揙kay, fine,?I say.
Eliza pops her mailbox open, retrieves a couple envelopes, and starts pulling me toward her place by the hand. 揧ou have to try the pecan roast. You抣l hit the floor.?
Strong coffee wafts me in the face before she抯 even fully opened her door.
But it抯 not just coffee. Her place is always this potent blend of sweetness and subtle fruity undertones. Everything good in life condensed into mingling foodie perfumes.
揇o I smell vanilla? Delicious.?
Eliza grins. 揧our favorite. I made a vanilla blend too just for you. Have you eaten yet? You never answered.?
No, and I抦 about to gnaw my own arm off. I don抰 want to say that, though.
揥hat pairs with coffee??Eliza asks, wagging her brows like it抯 a pop quiz.
揢h梑agels??
She rolls her eyes. 揧ou抮e a buzzkill, Dakota. Way to ruin my caffeine high.?
I laugh. 揑抦 not part hummingbird like you, living off sugar. Enlighten me.?
揝cones! I made a nice fresh batch of huge blueberry ones an hour ago. You抣l love them.?
She抯 got me there.
It抯 impossible not to love living right above a mad coffee scientist who抯 always after the perfect cup of joe and the best baked bliss to pair it with.
I kick my shoes off and walk through her small apartment, almost as cramped as mine.
There抯 a daybed and a couple chairs in the main room with a small kitchen off to the side. She goes to the kitchen bar and drops her mail on it.
My studio may be another postage stamp apartment, but her kitchen looks drastically different from mine.
Glass beakers, mason jars, canisters of coffee, a bright light, and tiny potted plants make it look more like a proper lab than a kitchen.
揂re those new plants??I whisper.
I抦 almost afraid to ask.
She smiles. 揑抦 trying to grow a hybrid bean. So far it hasn抰 worked out quite right.?
揇ang. So you抳e taken it to the next level? You抮e growing your own beans in the Seattle gloom to support your habit??