I chew it as loudly as I can, smacking my lips like war drums.
The most mouth-gasmic 揗mmmm-mmm-mmmm!?I抳e 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.
揝ee? Not everything is for sale. No deal.?
God.
I抳e seen my share of selfish men, but this one takes the cake梠r rather, he doesn抰 take the cinnamon roll I won抰 let him have. The tantrum brewing in his face when I make it crystal clear he抯 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抯 not fair.
When he抯 majorly pissed off, he抯 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抦 not sure it抯 possible.
Should I remind him he抯 an entitled douchebag?
That he抯 pretty freaking lucky I didn抰 spit fifty bucks?worth of roll at his stupid grumpy face?
It doesn抰 matter, though.
I don抰 have time to come up with the perfect f-you before he抯 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抰 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抰 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抣l 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抣l be out of here. You抳e 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抦 at work past sunset in a desperate bid to fix it.
I wish Cinnamon Roll Luck and the high of my little victory would抳e lasted longer.
Instead, I抦 back in my craptacular reality where the only poetry I write is an ode in sweat to fixing everybody else抯 problems.
I抦 not even upset.
I抦 not.
It抯 after nine o抍lock and dark when I drag my exhausted butt back to my shoebox apartment. With any luck, I抣l be putting in my two weeks?notice soon.
Stay strong, I tell myself.
There抯 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抯 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抯 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.
揌ey, Dakota! What抯 wrong? Tell me you抮e not just getting home,?a bright voice says.
揙h, hey.?I look over my shoulder as Eliza walks over with her usual disarming smile. 揧eah, late night. It抯 whatever. I just have a few more weeks left.?
揌ave you had dinner yet??she asks. Before I can answer, she says, 揕et me grab my mail, and then you should come over and try out my new brew.?
揑t抯 pushing ten o抍lock, Eliza. Pretty late for coffee.?My stomach rumbles, though, reminding me I haven抰 eaten yet and I have another early morning tomorrow.
揕ive 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抯 also a good way to delay the inevitable.
揙kay, fine,?I say.
Eliza pops her mailbox open, retrieves a couple envelopes, and starts pulling me toward her place by the hand. 揧ou have to try the pecan roast. You抣l hit the floor.?
Strong coffee wafts me in the face before she抯 even fully opened her door.
But it抯 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.
揇o I smell vanilla? Delicious.?
Eliza grins. 揧our favorite. I made a vanilla blend too just for you. Have you eaten yet? You never answered.?
No, and I抦 about to gnaw my own arm off. I don抰 want to say that, though.
揥hat pairs with coffee??Eliza asks, wagging her brows like it抯 a pop quiz.
揢h梑agels??
She rolls her eyes. 揧ou抮e a buzzkill, Dakota. Way to ruin my caffeine high.?
I laugh. 揑抦 not part hummingbird like you, living off sugar. Enlighten me.?
揝cones! I made a nice fresh batch of huge blueberry ones an hour ago. You抣l love them.?
She抯 got me there.
It抯 impossible not to love living right above a mad coffee scientist who抯 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抯 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.
揂re those new plants??I whisper.
I抦 almost afraid to ask.
She smiles. 揑抦 trying to grow a hybrid bean. So far it hasn抰 worked out quite right.?
揇ang. So you抳e taken it to the next level? You抮e growing your own beans in the Seattle gloom to support your habit??
揌abits are for drunks. Coffee is life.?She spreads her arms and waves affectionately at the lab-like kitchen. 揧ou抮e not looking at a simple hobby. One day, everything I抳e cooked up here will be the backbone of Liza抯 Love.?
揥hen you open Liza抯 Love, I promise I抣l read my poetry on open mic night.?
揈very night will be open mic night.?She wags a finger like it抯 already written in stone.
揋reat. Then I抣l be there every night and you抣l 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.
揟ell me your favorite,?she demands.
I take a fortifying gulp of the first one and wrinkle my nose. 揙of. 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.
揙h, my, that抯 lovely,?I mutter, feeling foamy sweetness dancing on my tongue.
揥hat do you taste??She watches me excitedly, her hands clasped in front of her.
揤anilla. 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.
揌mm. Cinnamon??
揂nd pecan.?She nods.
揑nteresting mix,?I say, smacking my lips lightly. 揟he second was my favorite, I think.?