Western Waves (Compass 3)

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.”