Page 13 of Semi Sweet (Working For Love #1)

T hat night, during an especially dull statistics class in a mostly empty lecture hall, I ate my cupcake and I tried to take notes. Most people yawned while my professor babbled on, but my mind kept going back to the newest poem and the reply I was working on underneath my textbook.

I came to the conclusion that the chances of this mystery person being a customer were slim.

I had to believe I would have noticed a shopper being around enough for them to know certain things about me.

I didn't exactly have regulars come in for returns or price checks.

There were the lottery customers, but they would never venture to the other end of the store to order a cupcake.

That, and they probably didn't like me that much.

I didn't let them loiter like it was their personal casino.

So that leaves an employee…. But that could be anyone.

I encountered so many people at Cash Value Market, but no one truly stood out.

I assumed they thought I was a snob like everyone else in my future family.

Some people at the store flat out hated me, so while that narrowed things down, it didn't exactly help.

The more I thought about it, the more apparent it was that I was kidding myself.

Something wasn't sitting right with me. Someone in the bakery had to be aiding this mystery person.

At the very least, they were putting the note in the box for them.

They had to be making cupcakes or taking fancy ones from someone.

Was it an inside job? Did someone in the department know more than they were telling me?

Everyone claimed they had no idea who was calling the orders in, but sometimes I wasn't so sure.

The handsome, serious face of Sean flashed through my mind.

There was no way this could be happening without him knowing something.

I wanted to doubt it was him. He was a manager with responsibilities and he hadn't said much to me.

It had to be someone else. Would he tell me if I asked him what he knew?

Would he ask me to stop wasting both of our time?

He'd been nothing but amused by the ordeal at best and irritated by it the rest of the time.

But it seemed as though he delivered my last note, so that counted for something.

I was getting frustrated, so I flipped back to my newest reply, playing with the rhymes and making sure I liked them before I made my final draft.

What does it mean

That you think I'm fine?

Does it mean you're just settling

Or that your heart is mine?

How can that be

If I don't recognize your face?

Why do these things

Continue to make my heart race?

Don't you know who I am?

Don't you know my life?

Don't you know that I'm trapped,

About to be someone's wife?

I appreciate the clue;

I like dogs too.

But I have to know

Who are you?

I felt that the poem was probably too forward, but it also displayed my desperation perfectly.

I wanted whoever this person was to know this wasn't just an innocent game for me.

This was becoming my reason for going into work beyond the hourly rate.

As my statistics class wrapped up, I decided I'd give it to Beth the following morning when I went in early to do some work before my shift.

I'd put it in a sealed envelope and hope for the best.

***

Sometimes I hated the crazy life I lived. My statistics class got out so late, some of the creepers had the audacity to cheer when I got on the train each week.

"You got a man?"

Every week, it was like I was stuck in a looping version of hell where I had to explain my relationship status to weirdos and pervs.

"Yeah. Tall and strong," I would try to say with as much confidence as I could muster. In truth, Evan wasn't much taller than I was, but they didn't need to know that. Or that he had money. Then they'd try to hold me for ransom and all parties involved would be disappointed.

When I started grad school a couple of years ago, I’d told Evan about how uncomfortable the train ride made me feel and he called me a savage.

"Just use the family driver. That's what they are there for."

I’d tried to explain that I liked to be independent and that it wasn't necessary, but it might have been nice for him to be waiting for me at the station just in case one of those sketch-balls decided to follow me home. Evan was no help.

"By that time of the day I'm comfortable for the night." That was his prim and proper way of saying he'd already be into his bourbon. "Use my driver or suit yourself."

I didn't want to keep the driver out late, so now I carried pepper spray, a key chain that could gouge someone's eyes out, and huge confidence that wasn't really there.

Fake it until you make it, right? I tried not to think about how Evan's priorities were slightly messed up sometimes.

His wife-to-be would embarrass him by studying at her job, but being on the news after a rape was not one of his worries.

The same guy that always asked if I was available scooted closer to me. Now came the same question he always asked me.

"Your boyfriend, does he have a big, you now?" I was so acquainted with this ordeal that I had to stop myself from mimicking what he said next. "If he doesn't, I can help you with that."

"It's huge," I assured. "Almost too much to handle, honestly, and I hate to break it to you, but he's not the sharing type."

The man was usually deterred by this. He would scowl and move onto someone new, until next week.

Maybe next week I'd get a book deal and I wouldn't have to ride the crappy train anymore.

Who was I kidding? I had no time to make anything of good quality.

I'd always end up close to the final round, or runner up.

Average just like my somewhat average-sized fiancé.

"Hmm, maybe that's why he throws himself into his work so much," I said with a chuckle. "Compensating…"

Did that make me a terrible person or just a survivor? I contemplated this until I got to my stop.