Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
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.