Page 17 of The Compass Series

Grown, buff man holding tiny, defenseless puppy against his chest?

Instant lady boner.

The driver of the vehicle slammed his hand to the horn before gesturing in the air with a look of disgust then speeding off.

The owner of the pup turned to see the man with her dog in his arms, and she looked horrified—not by her dog almost losing its life, but by the man who was holding on to the animal.

She snatched her pet away from him and started waving her hands in the air yet again, seemingly cussing him out for saving her pet.

What in the world is wrong with her?

Sure, he was known as the town asshole, but at that moment, he was a dang superhero!

She should’ve been thanking the jerk for his heroic act.

Instead, she was cussing him out as if he was the cause of the incident.

Mr. Personality stood tall and didn’t yell back at her.

In fact, he didn’t say a word. His full lips stayed pressed together, and he didn’t seemed bothered by said woman in the least. Not a raised eyebrow and not a single smile or frown on his lips.

He just seemed…blank.

Completely disconnected from the aggression being blasted his way.

He was better than me at that moment, that was for certain. If it were me, I would’ve invented curse words using every letter in the alphabet.

As she kept hollering, Mr. Personality turned and walked away from her, leaving the woman with her word vomit and bad pet owner skills.

The bell over the door dinged as he walked into the café. He took a seat at a corner booth, opened a menu, straightened his ballcap, and lowered his head, curving his massive shoulders forward as he studied the menu with too many options.

Why did he do that?

Why did he freaking have to save a pup from oncoming traffic?

Why did he have to make it so hard for me to dislike him?

Mr. Personality was built like a superhero.

From his chiseled jawline to his biceps-on-biceps arms, that man probably could’ve stopped a highspeed train using his man-of-steel chest. It was a shame that when I crossed his path, his people skills didn’t match his apparent gym skills.

Then again, that would’ve made him too good to be true.

“If you wanted a plate of salt with a steak and eggs on the side, you could’ve just asked,” a friendly voice offered, snapping my stare from Mr. Personality to the food I’d been mindlessly shaking salt onto for the past five minutes.

“Sorry,” I muttered, placing the saltshaker on the table and lowering myself back down in my seat. I glanced back out at the window to find the woman yelling at her dog for being disobedient.

I felt bad for the dog. The owner seemed like a truly disrespectful person.

“No need to be sorry. We all have our quirky habits,” the friendly voice promised.

My eyes moved to the guy speaking. He had thin rose-colored lips and green eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses.

His eyes had this talent of being able to smile all on their own.

His cheeks were covered in red freckles that matched his spiked orangish-red hair.

I took in his name tag and grinned as I read it out loud.

“ Marty .” He looked exactly how I would’ve imagined a Marty to look.

Kind of slim, but very tall. Kind of nerdy, but oddly handsome.

“That’s me,” he said, his lips turning up to match his smiling eyes. “Can I get you another steak and scrambled eggs?”

I hesitated, debating if I wanted to spend more money.

Even though Yoana had been determined to shove money into my pockets, I declined.

I still had enough in my savings from my books, but with the way I was writing—or not writing—I didn’t know when more money would come my way. Each nickel needed to matter.

Marty must have been a mind reader because he followed up his offer by saying it would be on the house.

“You wouldn’t get in trouble for that?” I asked, my stomach rumbling louder than I wanted it to. A level of embarrassment ran through me as I looked down at my salt-covered plate to avoid his concerned eyes.

“Ah, it’s no big deal. My dad owns the place.

” He cleared his throat and leaned in to whisper, “I’ll score you some extra toast, too.

” Marty lifted my plate off the table after picking it up and placing it back down a total of four times.

I didn’t mention the odd behavior, but I did offer him a smile.

He looked about my age, maybe a year or so younger.

There was this odd struggle I saw happening in Marty’s eyes as he reached for the saltshaker once and placed it back on the table.

He lifted it again, placed it down once more.

This same action happened two more times, for a total of four.

I arched an eyebrow to see his cheeks redden from some kind of shame.

“Sorry.” He laughed nervously. “Just a bad case of OCD.” He flinched at his words and my lips turned down. It was apparent that his obsessive-compulsive disorder was something he tried his best to hide but was unable to conceal.

That seemed to be the case with everyone, I supposed—having a secret you tried your best to hide.

I leaned in closer to him. “Don’t worry—we all have our quirky habits.” I winked his way and watched ease permeate his gaze.

“Is there a problem?” a stern voice asked.

I took my eyes away from Marty to look up at a grown man who was twice his size. Marty’s father, I assumed from the looks of things. His name tag told me his name was Gary.

Gary glared at his son and sighed, a look of disappointment in his tired eyes. “Are you freaking out the customers again?”

Before Marty could reply—or drop the shaky plate in his hand—I gripped his insecure hands and turned to Gary with a big smile. “I was just eyeing your red velvet cake in the display over there, and your son Marty here was telling me you have the best in town.”

Gary’s eyes softened. His lips turned up into a tiny grin as he crossed his arms and pushed out his chest. “That’s the truth.

Best slice of cake you’ll find in Havenbarrow, and all of Kentucky, at that.

I make everything from scratch. It’s the real deal.

Ain’t nothing fake like that new chain restaurant across the street, taking all our customers.

They use all frozen crap that messes with people’s insides.

We pride ourselves on using real food. My cake is to die for.

” It was amazing how manly Gary still appeared as he talked about a cake.

“Well, I’ll definitely have to come back one day and check it out.”

Gary brushed his palm across his brows. “You definitely do. Well, I better get back to the kitchen. Marty”—Gary’s annoyed look returned—“get to wiping down the other tables before the late-morning crowd comes through.”

Gary disappeared back into the busy kitchen, where pots and pans could be heard rattling. Marty thanked me for distracting his father for a moment then hurried off to place my new order.

While I waited, I pulled out a pen and a notebook from my purse and began adding to my list of things to do in Havenbarrow.

·Learn to bake a cake from scratch.

Every now and again, I’d glance over at the table where Mr. Personality sat, and a flurry of nerves would hit me at an overwhelming speed.

I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, no matter how much I tried to avert my gaze.

I felt as if I were a straight-up creeper, staring in his direction, yet something about him drew me in and made it almost impossible to look away.

He must’ve felt my intense glances at him, because when he looked up from his menu, his eyes landed directly on me. Like the psychopath I was, I didn’t do the normal thing most people did when they were caught staring at a complete stranger.

I didn’t turn my head away.

I didn’t pretend to look past him.

I didn’t scramble to make a run for it.

Nope, nope, nope.

I simply smiled and parted my lips.

“Hi,” I said on an exhalation, loud and clear as he narrowed his eyes.

He blinked three times.

He looked back at his menu, refitted his baseball cap, and rounded his shoulders forward once more, making me feel completely psychotic for even speaking to him. But still, I kept freaking staring.

What was wrong with me?

I’d recently binged the Netflix series You , and I was showing some strong Joe tendencies by watching this complete stranger. If I were Joe, this would have been my current stalker thought process:

You stare at the menu completely uncertain about what you’re going to order.

Will it be the green smoothie for you? The pancakes?

The oatmeal? No. You look more like an omelet guy.

You wear a hat to hide your face, but I don’t know why, seeing as you have a very nice, defined jawline.

Even though they are still cold and uninviting, your eyes are worthy of being seen and—holy crap, look the heck away, Kennedy.

What had gotten into me?

I watched as he removed his hat, set it down on the table, and raked his hands through his hair.

Marty came back to the table, did his quirky routine, and placed my food down. I inhaled the amazing aromas arising from my meal. I didn’t wait for Marty to walk away before I started shoveling the food into my mouth in a very unladylike fashion.

“So what brings you to town?” he asked with a bit of wonderment in his eyes, probably in response to how quickly I was stuffing the food into my mouth.

“I’m renting a place from my sister and brother-in-law for the next few months,” I said, taking in a forkful of eggs.

“Oh, with your…boyfriend? Husband?” Marty asked.

My stomach knotted up as I glanced down at my ringless finger. It had been a few hours since I’d thought about my past. Leave it to nice Marty to prompt those emotions to come rushing back at me.

“No. Just me.”

“You’re single?” he said, his voice filled with hope.