The angles of that face match the cut of his body. He’s toned like a former quarterback and dressed like he just walked off the set of Suits.
He is a Gucci-wrapped cocktail handcrafted for sin.
Every woman’s dark vampire fantasy come to life—or maybe just mine.
When you’re a Poe—distant, distant relation to Edgar Allan—it comes with the territory.
I definitely wonder if he woke up with a steaming mug of rudeness this morning to plaster that scowl on his face.
I’m starting to notice a pattern in this city. What is it with Seattle minting grumps who look like sex gods?
Is it something in the rain?
Worse, he towers over me, the picture-perfect strongman with a chip on his shoulder that entitles him to roar at the world when it doesn’t fall down at his feet.
Although he’s annoyingly gorgeous, and his suit probably costs half my yearly salary, I wonder. What gets a man this fire-breathing pissed over missing his morning sugar high?
Sure, I’ll be the first to admit that Regis rolls are almost worth losing your mind over. Almost.
While Hades stares, I roll my eyes back at him and follow the curve of the counter to wait for my drink.
Precious distance.
After grumbling for a solid minute, he swipes his card like a dagger at the cash register and follows me around the counter.
Uh-oh.
Surely, he’s not going to confront me.
He wouldn’t.
Oh, but he’s right next to me now.
Still glaring like I murdered his firstborn.
He pulls out his wallet, opens it, and plucks out a crisp bill, shoving it at me like it’s on fire.
“Fifty dollars,” Hot Shrek growls.
“Come again?”
“Fifty bucks. I’ll pay you five times its value for the trouble.”
“What?” I blink, hearing the words but not comprehending them.
He points to the white paper bag in my hand holding my little slice of heaven. “Your Regis roll, lady. I’ll buy it off you.”
“Wait, you just...you want to buy my cinnamon roll that bad?”
“Isn’t that what I just said? And it’s a Regis roll,” he corrects sharply. “You know, the kind worth dying over? The original recipe cooked up in Heart’s Edge, Montana, and approved by a scary burned guy who’s been all over the national media and keeps getting cameos in movies?”
I laugh. That’s exactly what Sweeter Grind’s ads promise about the otherworldly Regis roll, a creation of Clarissa and Leo Regis, two small-town sweet shop owners made famous by some crazy drama a few years back.
“Never mind,” he snaps. “You want to make this sale or what?”
“You should do commercials,” I tell him with a huff. “Is that what this is? Some strange guerrilla marketing thing?”
I hold my breath. At least that would explain Mr. GQ Model going absolutely ballistic over something so trivial.
Also, it’s the one-year anniversary of the most humiliating day of my life.
I need this roll like I still need to believe there’s a shred of goodness in this world. What kind of psycho tries to buy someone’s cinnamon roll off them for five times the price, anyway?
“Do I look like a comedian?” he snarls, his eyes rolling. “Fifty dollars. Easy money. Trade.”
“Dude, you’re insane,” I whisper back.
“Dudette,” he barks back, slightly more frantic. “I assure you, I am not. I need that roll, and I’m willing to pay you generously. I trust you need the money more than I do.”
I scoff at him so hard my face hurts.
Rub it in, why don’t you? I guess I should up and be amazed you’re deigning to talk to us ‘little people,’ your pastry-obsessed highness.
“It must be nice, oh Lord of the Pastries. What do I get for an apple pie? A laptop?” I shake my head.
His done-with-your-bullshit glare intensifies.
“Dakota!” A male barista calls my name and plunks my drink on the counter.
Awesome. There’s my cue to exit this asylum and head back to the springtime sanity outside where birds tweet and flowers bloom and nobody goes to war over cinnamon shortages.
I grab my drink and start for the door.
“Wait!” Hot Shrek calls. “Dakota.”
Ughhh.
My name shouldn’t sound so deliciously rough on a man’s lips. Especially not a man offering exorbitant sums to strangers for their baked goods.
Knowing I’ll regret this, I stop and meet his eyes.
“What?” I clip.
“We haven’t finished.”
“Right. Because there’s no deal,” I snap, turning again.
Okay. Before, I was just looking forward to stuffing my face with sticky goodness. Now, I need this flipping cinnamon roll like oxygen.
If I spite the hottest freak who crawled out of the ogre swamp, I’ll have something to laugh about later.
True to the promise I made the barista, I’ll savor the flavor while wallowing in a little less of my own misery and reminding myself I’m living a better life now—which apparently includes handsome stalkers begging to throw cash at me.
“Wait. I need it more than you do. I swear,” he says harshly, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me around.