Page 115 of The Compass Series

STELLA - PRESENT DAY

“ Y ou have got to be kidding me,” I huffed to myself as I stood in a remarkably long line for Jerry’s Bakery.

I wasn’t a woman who enjoyed waiting in lines.

Not for concert tickets, not for food, not for Black Friday deals.

As a matter of fact, I went out of my way to avoid lines to the best of my ability.

If more than ten people were in front of me, there was a solid chance I wasn’t sticking around to try the new popular chicken sandwich.

Oh, those new sneakers I’d been dying to get?

Awesome! A line with twenty-five people?

I’d get them next season, thankyouverymuch.

Normally, I showed up at the bakery during the week, when rush hours died down during my break from work. No part of me ever wanted to show up at Jerry’s early on a Saturday, but I didn’t have much choice that morning.

The line inched closer moment by moment, and soon enough, all that stood between the mission and me was a very tall man dressed in designer clothing.

I was so close that I could almost taste the blueberries.

So close that the darkened coffee was seconds away from burning the tip of my tongue.

I saw my goal in the display cabinet right in front of me: a beautiful, thick blueberry scone.

The last one, too. I felt as if the universe had looked down on me and kissed my cheek with its love.

Unfortunately, the universe had a sick sense of humor because it went ahead and bitch-slapped me as the gentleman in front of me ordered the last one.

“No!” I shouted, shooting in front of him as if I were trying to stop a bomb from exploding.

I blocked him and the display as if it were my own mission in life.

My heart pounded wildly against my rib cage as my brown eyes bugged out of my head.

The cashier and the man looked at me as if I were insane, and, well…

fair assessment, but I didn’t care how crazy I appeared.

All I cared about was getting that freaking scone.

“I’m sorry, I mean no harm,” I said to the terrified-looking cashier, clearing my throat. She couldn’t have been older than seventeen. Eighteen on a heavy makeup day. I turned to look at the gentleman in front of me, and when my eyes met his, I almost passed out. He looked so much like…

No.

Focus, Stella.

I pushed out the friendliest smile I could muster up and shook off my nerves as I met the coldest blue eyes I’d ever seen. They looked like the ocean—if the ocean froze over and was unwelcoming. They also delivered an icy chill down one’s spine when they were fixated on you.

My whole body shivered as I stared into his blues. His posture remained strong and stable.

I guessed my eyes didn’t hold the same effect on him.

“I actually was going to get that blueberry scone,” I said. “I’ve been waiting in line this whole time for that.”

“That has nothing to do with me,” he grumbled.

His voice was deep and smoky. Was there a little New York twang in his accent?

Maybe Queens? Or Brooklyn? When I was a kid, I had an odd obsession with daydreaming that I was from New York City.

I’d watched one too many episodes of Sex and The City and practiced the different New York accents I’d hear on YouTube.

Some kids hung out with people; others mimicked accents in their bedrooms.

The stranger held his card toward the cashier, and I smacked it out of his hand, sending it to the floor. His eyes glanced down at his card, rose to meet my stare, back to the card, then back at me. I felt a wave of nausea hit me.

“Sorry,” I muttered.

“Are you fucking joking?” he shot back, irritation dripping from his existence.

The poor cashier looked uncomfortable as she glanced toward the back of the shop as if hoping for someone to rescue her from the awkward situation. “Um, ma’am, I’m sorry. I’m going to need you to?—"

“I’ll pay you!” I cut in as I ignored the girl and looked at the man, pulling my wallet out of my purse. “How much for that scone?”

“Stop talking to me,” he said, bending down to pick up his card. He went to hand it to the cashier, and I hit it out of his grip once more. His voice lowered to an annoyed snarl, and I felt the heat of his rage hitting my skin as I took a step backward. “Listen, lady,” he growled.

“No, you listen. I need that blueberry scone. I called dibs!”

“You can’t call dibs,” the cashier said.

“Stay out of this, Julie!” I snapped at her. Then I leaned in and whispered, “I’m sorry, that was harsh. I apologize for my tone. I’m not a yeller, I swear. I’m just?—”

“Very unwell,” the man muttered.

I frowned. “That’s rude.”

“Don’t care,” he replied.

“That’s fine. I don’t care that you don’t care. All that I care about is that scone.”

“Then you should’ve shown up earlier,” he shot back.

“I was going to, but I got stuck in traffic and?—”

“And no one asked for your sob story.”

“You don’t understand. I?—”

“Again. No one gives a shit,” he coldly stated, crouching to pick up his card once more.

“He’s right. You’re holding up the line!” a stranger shot out from the ever-growing queue behind me.

I turned to the person and said, “This is a private situation I am having with?—”

“Herself,” the coldhearted man said after paying for his blueberry scone that was meant to be mine. He picked up his coffee and scone and headed toward the exit.

My chest felt as if it had been set on fire as I watched the final blueberry scone walk out of the building. Was this what Romeo felt like after losing his Juliet? I now understood how he felt when he said, “Here’s to my love! O true apothecary. Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.”

What I wouldn’t give to kiss that dang scone with my lips.

I would’ve liked to say that was my last interaction with said man, but no. I was far too unstable to allow it to end right there. Like the unhinged individual I was becoming at that moment, I chased the stranger out of the store and shouted, “Hey! Hey! Wait up!”

He looked over his shoulder at me, and I saw the annoyance that shot across his face. He turned forward and kept walking, forcing me to break out into a slightly awkward jog. How tall was that guy? His single strides were double the length of my awkward run.

“Excuse me!” I hollered as he opened the back door to his car—a very pricy-looking vehicle with his driver sitting in the front. Before the door fully opened, I hopped in front of it. “Excuse me, hi. I was actually calling after you.”

“I don’t have time for California weirdness, lady.”

Oh, so you’re not a California native. Obviously, Mr. Accent.

I smiled that “you can’t help but love me” smile. “My name’s Stella.”

“Didn’t ask.”

Okay, perhaps he could help but love me, but alas.

I wanted to continue my crazy mode, but I shifted gears into trying to come off as more approachable since I still needed that freaking scone. “Yes, but I figured it would be easier if we were on a first-name basis. Then it would make this interaction more personal.”

“I don’t do personal.”

“Well, I’m glad to announce that I am a professional at personal. So I can take the lead, and you can follow. We can do a little one-two-cha-cha-cha tango of conversation.” I cha-cha’d in front of him. He wasn’t amused.

He blankly blinked six times in a row. “Move.”

“But!”

“I have places to be, all right?!” he snapped. “So move.”

“I will, I swear. After you give me the blueberry scone.”

“You’re a psychopath.”

“Yeah, okay, cool. Call me whatever you want. As long as you give me that scone.”

He grimaced and grumbled with narrowed eyes, “You mean this scone?” He looked down at his package with the scone. He pulled it out slowly and rubbed his fingers all over it.

I didn’t care. I had a public education and survived bobbing for apples in grade school. Germs didn’t freak me out.

“Yes, that one.”

“Oh, okay.” He held it out toward me. Right as I was about to grab it, he shoved it into his mouth and ate the whole thing in three bites.

One, two, three. Crumbs dropped to the ground as he aggressively chewed the food in my face.

Honestly, most of it didn’t even make it into his mouth.

The poor, sweet blueberries fell to the sidewalk, and I felt as if he’d kicked me in the privates from the simple act of caveman-ness.

“Now can you move?” he asked with a full mouth, spitting crumbs in my direction. He dusted the tidbits off his custom black suit and arched a cocky eyebrow.

“You’re a…you’re a…you’re a major asshole!” I blurted out, feeling rage, and disgust, and sad. Mostly sad.

So unbelievably sad.

“I’m not an asshole. I just have asshole tendencies,” he muttered, then sighed. “Why are you doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Crying.”

“I’m not.”

“Your tear ducts are leaking fluid. That’s called crying.”

I touched my cheeks and shook my head. Well, will you look at that. I was crying. “You shouldn’t have eaten my scone,” I blurted out, becoming a blubbering mess. What was wrong with me? I knew I was an easy crier, but this was a bit ridiculous, even for me.

He cocked an eyebrow and looked more concerned than angry. His mouth parted as if he were going to offer me comfort, but instead, he shut his lips, reached into his front pocket, and handed me his perfectly folded handkerchief.

“Thank you,” I mumbled, blowing my nose in it. I held it back out to him.

He grimaced. “Keep it. Now, for the last and final time, can you move away from my car?”

I stepped to the side.

He climbed into his car and slammed the door behind him. Then his window rolled down, and he looked at me. “If it makes you feel better, it wasn’t even good,” he remarked before raising his window back up.

His driver drove away, leaving me standing there on the curb, surrounded by nothing but crumbs as the reminder of the oddest interaction. The interaction that I, clearly, made uncomfortable.

I did my best to pull myself together even though my nerves were shot.

Then I climbed into my car and drove to my next destination.

The part of my day that I was dreading the most. I wished I could’ve simply gone back to bed and skipped over the remainder of the day, but life did not come with pause buttons.

Sadly enough, each day continued—no matter how much a person needed a break.