The spring sun shines down on Seattle like a sword aimed at my own personal gloom.
I’m sad and hungry—a dangerous combination.
It’s been a year to the day since I buried my heart—and the utter scumbag who dragged it through the mud, doused it in kerosene, and burned it to a blackened crisp—and it feels like an eternity.
Some things, you only sort of get over.
Some things, you don’t forget.
Hold the pity party, Dakota. You’re better off without him. You’re a thousand miles from home, smack in the middle of a whole new life, I tell myself.
Eyeballing the gluttonous offerings in the bakery case helps.
It’s true. I have rebuilt. Kind of.
I left that small-town dreariness and its regrets behind. I have an interview next week for a job that slaps, and if I don’t get it, I’ll keep applying until I land something with big-girl pay and a real opportunity to flex my writing muscles.
Without my great escape last summer in a halo of tears, I wouldn’t be here in Seattle, practically drooling at the sugar-rich delicacies that all seem to have my name on them.
I’d have less time to focus on my writing, too, and I’d still be interning in that one-room closet masquerading as a marketing agency.
Yay, heartbreak.
Yay, Jay Foyt.
His stupidity gave me a whole new life.
“You hungry or did you just come here to admire the goods? Can I get you something?” The barista appears behind the bakery case with a girlish laugh.
“Huh? Oh, sorry—” Dammit, Dakota, get out of your head. “Can I get a Regis roll and a small caramel nirvana latte?”
“Coming right up!” She smiles and uses tongs to grab a huge cinnamon roll drizzled in icing. It’s so fat I think it crosses time zones. “Lucky lady, you got the last one today! We’re a little short. Cinnamon shortage in the morning shipment—go figure.”
Lucky me.
If only my luck with pastries would rub off on other things. Like winning lottery tickets or cigar-chomping big shots in publishing ready to snap up my poetry. I’d even settle for a decent Tinder date who doesn’t have a fuckboy bone in his body.
Nope. I’m asking for too much.
Today, Lady Luck grants bargain wishes. She delivers the very last mound of sticky cinnamon sweetness in the case and point-three more pounds on my thighs.
I mean, it’s a start, right?
I move to the cash register and pay.
“Glad I got mine before you ran out,” I say, swiping my card. “I’ll be sure to savor the flavor—”
“What do you mean you’re out?” a deep voice thunders behind me. “I’ve been here at exactly this time three times a week since Christmas. You’re never out.”
Holy crap.
And I thought I was having a bad day…
I look back toward the bakery case to see what kind of ogre crawled out of his swamp to rant and rave over a missing cinnamon roll.
“Sorry, sir. The lady in front of you just bought the last roll,” the barista says, wearing a placating frown. “There’s a bit of a weird cinnamon shortage going around—”
“Are you telling me there isn’t another goddamned Regis roll in the entire shop?” The man is tall, built, and entirely pissed off.
“Er, no. Like I said…cinnamon shortage.” Barista girl flashes a pained smile. “The early bird got the worm, I’m afraid. If you’d like to try again tomorrow, we’ll save one for you.”
Barista girl nods at me matter-of-factly.
The ogre turns, whips his head toward me, and glares like his eyes are death rays.
Red alert.
So, he might be just as bad-tempered as the average ogre, but in the looks department, this guy is the anti-Shrek. If the green guy had abs that could punish and tanned skin instead of rocking his Brussels sprout glow, he might catch up to Hot Shrek in front of me.
My breath catches in my chest.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes like amber whiskey, flashing in the morning light.
If he weren’t snarling like a rabid wolverine, he might be hotter than the toasty warm roll in my hand. The coolness of his eyes contrasts deliciously with dark hair, a furrowed brow, a jaw so chiseled it shames mere mortals.
He might be in his early thirties. His face looks young yet experienced.
The angles of that face match the cut of his body. He’s toned like a former quarterback and dressed like he just walked off the set of Suits.
He is a Gucci-wrapped cocktail handcrafted for sin.
Every woman’s dark vampire fantasy come to life—or maybe just mine.
When you’re a Poe—distant, distant relation to Edgar Allan—it comes with the territory.
I definitely wonder if he woke up with a steaming mug of rudeness this morning to plaster that scowl on his face.
I’m starting to notice a pattern in this city. What is it with Seattle minting grumps who look like sex gods?
Is it something in the rain?
Worse, he towers over me, the picture-perfect strongman with a chip on his shoulder that entitles him to roar at the world when it doesn’t fall down at his feet.
Although he’s annoyingly gorgeous, and his suit probably costs half my yearly salary, I wonder. What gets a man this fire-breathing pissed over missing his morning sugar high?
Sure, I’ll be the first to admit that Regis rolls are almost worth losing your mind over. Almost.
While Hades stares, I roll my eyes back at him and follow the curve of the counter to wait for my drink.
Precious distance.
After grumbling for a solid minute, he swipes his card like a dagger at the cash register and follows me around the counter.
Uh-oh.
Surely, he’s not going to confront me.
He wouldn’t.
Oh, but he’s right next to me now.
Still glaring like I murdered his firstborn.
He pulls out his wallet, opens it, and plucks out a crisp bill, shoving it at me like it’s on fire.
“Fifty dollars,” Hot Shrek growls.
“Come again?”
“Fifty bucks. I’ll pay you five times its value for the trouble.”
“What?” I blink, hearing the words but not comprehending them.
He points to the white paper bag in my hand holding my little slice of heaven. “Your Regis roll, lady. I’ll buy it off you.”
“Wait, you just…you want to buy my cinnamon roll that bad?”
“Isn’t that what I just said? And it’s a Regis roll,” he corrects sharply. “You know, the kind worth dying over? The original recipe cooked up in Heart’s Edge, Montana, and approved by a scary burned guy who’s been all over the national media and keeps getting cameos in movies?”
I laugh. That’s exactly what Sweeter Grind’s ads promise about the otherworldly Regis roll, a creation of Clarissa and Leo Regis, two small-town sweet shop owners made famous by some crazy drama a few years back.
“Never mind,” he snaps. “You want to make this sale or what?”
“You should do commercials,” I tell him with a huff. “Is that what this is? Some strange guerrilla marketing thing?”
I hold my breath. At least that would explain Mr. GQ Model going absolutely ballistic over something so trivial.
Also, it’s the one-year anniversary of the most humiliating day of my life.
I need this roll like I still need to believe there’s a shred of goodness in this world. What kind of psycho tries to buy someone’s cinnamon roll off them for five times the price, anyway?
“Do I look like a comedian?” he snarls, his eyes rolling. “Fifty dollars. Easy money. Trade.”
“Dude, you’re insane,” I whisper back.
“Dudette,” he barks back, slightly more frantic. “I assure you, I am not. I need that roll, and I’m willing to pay you generously. I trust you need the money more than I do.”
I scoff at him so hard my face hurts.
Rub it in, why don’t you? I guess I should up and be amazed you’re deigning to talk to us ‘little people,’ your pastry-obsessed highness.
“It must be nice, oh Lord of the Pastries. What do I get for an apple pie? A laptop?” I shake my head.
His done-with-your-bullshit glare intensifies.
“Dakota!” A male barista calls my name and plunks my drink on the counter.
Awesome. There’s my cue to exit this asylum and head back to the springtime sanity outside where birds tweet and flowers bloom and nobody goes to war over cinnamon shortages.
I grab my drink and start for the door.
“Wait!” Hot Shrek calls. “Dakota.”
Ughhh.
My name shouldn’t sound so deliciously rough on a man’s lips. Especially not a man offering exorbitant sums to strangers for their baked goods.
Knowing I’ll regret this, I stop and meet his eyes.
“What?” I clip.
“We haven’t finished.”
“Right. Because there’s no deal,” I snap, turning again.
Okay. Before, I was just looking forward to stuffing my face with sticky goodness. Now, I need this flipping cinnamon roll like oxygen.
If I spite the hottest freak who crawled out of the ogre swamp, I’ll have something to laugh about later.
True to the promise I made the barista, I’ll savor the flavor while wallowing in a little less of my own misery and reminding myself I’m living a better life now—which apparently includes handsome stalkers begging to throw cash at me.
“Wait. I need it more than you do. I swear,” he says harshly, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me around.
I bat his hand away, doubly annoyed and taken aback.
“You’re insane. Touch me again and I’ll press charges for robbery. It’s a cinnamon roll, dude. Calm down and come back tomorrow when they’re replenished.” I panic chug my latte and walk out the door.
Hot Stalker Shrek is undaunted.
He trails me outside as I stroll into the Seattle sunshine, taking a deep breath.
“Seventy-five!” he calls after me.
“What?”
“Seventy-five dollars.”
“Um, no.” I speed walk to the bike rack and unlock my wheels with one hand, balancing the Regis roll and the latte in the other.
“One hundred dollars even,” he belts after me.
Holy Moses. How high will he go?
“One fifty!” he calls two seconds later.
There goes my jaw, crashing to the pavement.
A chill sweeps through me. I’m worried we’re leaving eccentric waters for clinically crazy.
Part of me wants to keep him talking just so he doesn’t carry me off to his evil lair. I imagine a storage shed stacked to the ceiling with crumpled cinnamon roll boxes.
“Did you really just offer me a hundred and fifty dollars for a cinnamon roll?” I place the latte in a cup holder on my handlebar and climb on the bike.
He gives me an arctic look, like he knows he’s got me now and I’ve already accepted his bizarro deal.
“You’re welcome. You can Uber and still have a nice chunk of change.”
I scan him up and down, purposely glancing at his polished leather shoes a second too long. In another time and place, I’d take a nice big sip of my latte and spray it on his shoes but…that’s not how I roll.
I have my dignity. I plan to have a little more of it when I’m safely away from here, too.
“This may come as a shock, but not all of us worship money, King Midas,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says with a snort, squaring his hulking shoulders.
“You’re a nutter. Like actually insane.” My eyes flick to his wrists for good measure, legit wondering if I’ll see a hospital band.
“I am not. Have you ever tasted a Regis roll? Seattle’s top food critic described them as—what was it? A category ten mouth-gasm?”
My lips twitch. I try like hell not to burst out into a blushing laugh.
“Man, I am not discussing mouth-gasms with you,” I say.
“You’re missing the point,” he says sharply. “Help me and help yourself, Miss Dakota. We never have to see each other again and you’ll be three hundred dollars richer.”
“Three…hundred?” I say slowly, my mouth falling open.
“You heard me.” His eyes flash with hope and triumph, and he starts reaching for his wallet.
Stay strong.
Invisible crucifix.
Latte holy water.
Do not be tempted by Lucifer.
“See, you’re not making your case. Just further proving your insanity.” I eye him warily. Maybe there’s some wild story behind how he stole this suit and he really did just escape some mental institution.
That would be the most believable explanation for what’s happening.
Honestly, a lot less scary than thinking guys who look like billionaires want to spend their time reverse robbing strangers for their pastries.
“Five hundred dollars, damn you,” he rumbles. “Final offer.”
My jaw detaches from my face.
Five hundred flipping smackers?
That’s more than my student loan payment this month. Almost half my rent. I’m tempted to sign my soul away, but my fingers clench the bag tighter, demanding me to be brave.
Not today, Coffee Shop Satan.
A smile that’s almost comically pleading pulls at his lips.
Damn. Somehow, he’s even hotter when he smiles and makes those puppy dog eyes. A face like his should come with a warning.
“I see that got your attention,” he whispers.
“Did it?”
“Your mouth dropped,” he says, making me keenly aware his gaze is fixed on my lips. I don’t even know what to do with that.
He closes the space between us and reaches for my bag, trying to get the drop on me.
“Hey—no! I told you it’s not happening, crazypants.” I don’t like the way he so casually invades my space. I also have a pesky habit of not taking a single speck of crap from anyone. Especially this past year.
But there’s also this tiny thought nibbling at the back of my brain that screams this man is no different from Jay.
Just richer, stronger, better-looking, and possibly more arrogant.
Keeping this Regis roll out of his grubby paws is a little win for Dakota Poe against mankind. Against every swinging dick who brandishes his selfish ego like a club.
“I’m perfectly sane. I simply need that roll, and I can’t walk away empty-handed,” he tells me.
“Y’know, I woke up inspired to write today. But I wasn’t planning on getting real-world inspiration shoved in my face from someone so ridiculous.”
“I have no idea what the hell that means, but I need the roll and you need money. Do we have a deal?”
“Why am I not surprised you can’t 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.
“Watch your step, Big Mouth. You know nothing about me. Let’s 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. “You’re on a bike. Don’t tell me you couldn’t use a few hundred bucks.”
“Orrr I could be so loaded I run a green power company and need to look the part,” I throw back. “Plus, 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’ve 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 “Mmmmm-mmm-mmmm!” I’ve 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.
“See? Not everything is for sale. No deal.”
God.
I’ve seen my share of selfish men, but this one takes the cake—or rather, he doesn’t take the cinnamon roll I won’t let him have. The tantrum brewing in his face when I make it crystal clear he’s 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’s not fair.
When he’s majorly pissed off, he’s 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’m not sure it’s possible.
Should I remind him he’s an entitled douchebag?
That he’s pretty freaking lucky I didn’t spit fifty bucks’ worth of roll at his stupid grumpy face?
It doesn’t matter, though.
I don’t have time to come up with the perfect f-you before he’s 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’t 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’t 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’ll 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’ll be out of here. You’ve 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’m at work past sunset in a desperate bid to fix it.
I wish Cinnamon Roll Luck and the high of my little victory would’ve lasted longer.
Instead, I’m back in my craptacular reality where the only poetry I write is an ode in sweat to fixing everybody else’s problems.
I’m not even upset.
I’m not.
It’s after nine o’clock and dark when I drag my exhausted butt back to my shoebox apartment. With any luck, I’ll be putting in my two weeks’ notice soon.
Stay strong, I tell myself.
There’s 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’s 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’s 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.
“Hey, Dakota! What’s wrong? Tell me you’re not just getting home,” a bright voice says.
“Oh, hey.” I look over my shoulder as Eliza walks over with her usual disarming smile. “Yeah, late night. It’s whatever. I just have a few more weeks left.”
“Have you had dinner yet?” she asks. Before I can answer, she says, “Let me grab my mail, and then you should come over and try out my new brew.”
“It’s pushing ten o’clock, Eliza. Pretty late for coffee.” My stomach rumbles, though, reminding me I haven’t eaten yet and I have another early morning tomorrow.
“Live 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’s also a good way to delay the inevitable.
“Okay, fine,” I say.
Eliza pops her mailbox open, retrieves a couple envelopes, and starts pulling me toward her place by the hand. “You have to try the pecan roast. You’ll hit the floor.”
Strong coffee wafts me in the face before she’s even fully opened her door.
But it’s 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.
“Do I smell vanilla? Delicious.”
Eliza grins. “Your favorite. I made a vanilla blend too just for you. Have you eaten yet? You never answered.”
No, and I’m about to gnaw my own arm off. I don’t want to say that, though.
“What pairs with coffee?” Eliza asks, wagging her brows like it’s a pop quiz.
“Uh—bagels?”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re a buzzkill, Dakota. Way to ruin my caffeine high.”
I laugh. “I’m not part hummingbird like you, living off sugar. Enlighten me.”
“Scones! I made a nice fresh batch of huge blueberry ones an hour ago. You’ll love them.”
She’s got me there.
It’s impossible not to love living right above a mad coffee scientist who’s 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’s 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.
“Are those new plants?” I whisper.
I’m almost afraid to ask.
She smiles. “I’m trying to grow a hybrid bean. So far it hasn’t worked out quite right.”
“Dang. So you’ve taken it to the next level? You’re growing your own beans in the Seattle gloom to support your habit?”
“Habits are for drunks. Coffee is life.” She spreads her arms and waves affectionately at the lab-like kitchen. “You’re not looking at a simple hobby. One day, everything I’ve cooked up here will be the backbone of Liza’s Love.”
“When you open Liza’s Love, I promise I’ll read my poetry on open mic night.”
“Every night will be open mic night.” She wags a finger like it’s already written in stone.
“Great. Then I’ll be there every night and you’ll still be feeding me like a hobo who just lost her last poker game.”
Laughing, she heads into the kitchen and pours coffee into three tiny glasses, then piles a plate high with scones. She sets the tiny coffee cups and scones down on the bar separating the kitchen from the living room.
“Tell me your favorite,” she demands.
I take a fortifying gulp of the first one and wrinkle my nose. “Oof. That just tastes like…coffee. Needs a little sweetener.”
She scowls at me.
I hold up my hands defensively and then sip the second one.
“Oh, my, that’s lovely,” I mutter, feeling foamy sweetness dancing on my tongue.
“What do you taste?” She watches me excitedly, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Vanilla. Sweet stuff. A little cream. Almost like…a cake flavor?”
Eliza smiles and nods like an approving teacher.
I clear my mouth with water, then take a pull off the third cup, smacking my lips.
“Hmm. Cinnamon?”
“And pecan.” She nods.
“Interesting mix,” I say, smacking my lips lightly. “The second was my favorite, I think.”
“I’ll pour you a full mug of birthday cake coffee. Cream and sugar?”
“Just cream.”
Eliza opens a cabinet, pulls out a normal-sized mug, and sets to work making my drink to order.
I pick up an oversized blueberry scone from the plate and take a bite.
As always, it’s delicious, and I’m starving. I start stuffing my face like a back-alley raccoon before I even notice.
This entire day has been carb-central, and I’m adding to my thighs.
Worth it.
I’ve also been keeping the mail I brought up with me this whole time. I pull out envelopes and sort through them in more detail, keeping that last one at the end like the poison ivy leaf it is.
The return address is Dickinson, North Dakota.
Too close for comfort. Too close to my hometown of Dallas—a dusty little northern oil town with too many bad memories tainting the good times. It’s a place where everyone has a magical love story except me.
“What is it?” Eliza says, noticing the frown on my face.
I shake my head.
“Oh, nothing.” I drop the letters in my lap and pick up the steaming mug Eliza set down next to me.
“King Idiot again?”
“…maybe.” I pick up the mug and take another sip of Eliza’s sublime brew, warming my soul. I slide the letter across the bar. “Toss it for me?”
“Sure thing! You sure you don’t want to read it first?”
For a second, I hesitate. But whatever heartless apology or validation seeking thing my ex sent can’t be worth the grief. Especially not today.
“Nope. Shoot your shot,” I tell her, slurping my coffee loudly.
Grinning, she crumples the letter into a messy ball and chucks it into the pink crate with glittery stripes across the room she uses for recycling.
“Score!” She pours herself a celebratory coffee and sits beside me.
“Eliza, I say this gently, but…I don’t think you need more coffee.” I pat her shoulder.
“And we don’t blaspheme in this house.”
I laugh. “Will you even sleep tonight?”
She picks up a scone and takes a wolfish bite.
“Eventually. How was your day? Besides the working zombie hours and getting a letter from King Idiot, I mean?”
“Same day, different…asshole.” I carefully add that last word, remembering my morning spat at Sweeter Grind. “Actually, that’s not exactly true. I ran into a real weirdo at Sweeter Grind this morning—”
“Oh?” Eliza’s brows shoot up. “Did he follow you? Did he try to—”
“Yes, he followed. But no. Not the typical harassment like you’re thinking. He had a mantrum—a man tantrum—because I was ahead of him in line and snagged the last Regis roll.”
“I mean, can you blame him? Regis rolls are God.”
For a second, I burst out laughing. If Eliza could build herself an altar of baked offerings like the crazy little coffee Pagan she is, I’m sure there’d be a freaking Regis roll in the center.
“Yeah, but get this,” I say. “This dude flips his lid when he finds out the last one just sold out. He yells at the barista and then he tries to buy my roll.”
“What?” She doubles over laughing, her eyes scrunching up in this funny way that makes me join her.
“Oh, wow. You should’ve given him some jacked up price just to see if he’d take it. You could have had a nice payday!”
I purse my lips.
“Well…he started bidding. He got up to five hundred dollars without any prompting on my part.”
“He—what?” Her mouth falls open. “You’re not joking? Let me get this straight. So some rando at Sweeter Grind bids five hundred dollars for a cinnamon roll? Holy crap. You scored the jackpot! I’d be feasting at Le Panier for a week if I had your devil’s luck.”
“Here’s the thing.” I take another slow bite of scone and chew, questioning my sanity. “I didn’t take it.”
Eliza’s eyes almost pop out of her head. She slaps her thigh so hard her coffee rattles.
“No way! Why?”
“Because. This guy needed a serving of humble pie. He comes clomping in looking like a model in a three-piece suit and demands the last cinnamon roll in the shop just because he’s breathing? Because he’s rich? I don’t even know, there’s just something seriously borked about that. Someone had to teach him a lesson.”
“Uh huh. And you, Miss Poe, just happened to notice his suit.”
I open my mouth to fire back but the words won’t come.
“Dakota. You passed up five Benjamins and the chance to hate-flirt with a hot rich guy, and now you’ll never see him again?” Eliza reaches out and gently flicks her fingers against my forehead. “Are you sure you’re okay? Like, are you sure Edgar Allan’s craziness isn’t hereditary?”
“Oh, please. We’re super distantly related.” I roll my eyes. “Also, he wasn’t flirting. He was pretty horrible. He kept stalking me as he upped his offers, so what else could I do? I took a huge bite of the roll right in front of him just so he’d get it through his Neanderthal skull that he’s not, under any circumstances, buying my roll. Being rich doesn’t make you God.”
She shrugs.
“I mean, I’ll give you an A in ethics. No lie, I would’ve taken the five hundred bucks, though.” She flashes an awkward smile.
“It was mighty tempting, but this guy needed a lesson. Trust me.”
“Why did you just have to be the one to teach him?”
I shrug.
“Because I could.” I sigh. “Okay, because I had fun with it. I needed to brighten up my day.”
“Oh, right. I forgot you’re coming up on a year since…yeah.” Her face softens. “You had a bad day and a pastry-obsessed psycho was an easy target. It doesn’t matter, lady. Any idiot who pays that much for a cinnamon roll would regret it. I’m sure you’ll never see him again and you saved him five hundred dollars. Tomorrow’s a new day. You’ll feel better.”
“I hope you’re right,” I say glumly.
“Is there any chance you could wake up more pissed?” She blinks at me.
“Eliza, no,” I say, laughing.
“Okay, cool. There you have it, then. Tomorrow has to be better because it can’t get worse.”
“It’s already a lot better with these scones in my belly,” I tell her, finishing my last bite.
“How do you think King Idiot found your new address, if you don’t mind me asking? Or is your mail still being forwarded?”
“Definitely not forwarded. He probably asked somebody back home. I’ve told you how gossip flies around Dallas. When the hot guy mechanic got mixed up with a pig and finally got engaged to my friend Shelly last year, nobody would shut up about it for months.”
“For sure! So why don’t you tell me more about this big interview you have lined up?”
I do exactly that while finishing the coffee and wind up hanging out with Eliza until one in the morning.
Not a terrible way to close out my anti-anniversary.
By the end of the night, I’m grateful that I feel a lot better than I did a year ago.
Eliza works miracles, and not just with her coffee.
I only hope I’ll be half as blessed when I finally get a chance to nail the job that will finally set me free.
