Total pages in book: 6
Estimated words: 5469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 27(@200wpm)___ 22(@250wpm)___ 18(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 5469 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 27(@200wpm)___ 22(@250wpm)___ 18(@300wpm)
“You are such a percentage showoff.”
I take a bow, then park my hands on the counter. “What they don’t tell you in middle school is that percentages are the only math you’ll ever really need as an adult.”
“I call them the unsung heroes of math,” she says, then waggles the fork my way. “Want a bite?”
I want to bite her shoulder. Lick her neck. Nibble on her earlobe. “I would, but I can’t eat on the job,” I whisper, shaking my head in faux annoyance. “The boss is such a hard ass.”
“Oh, I bet he is,” she says.
“He’s the worst,” I tease, because Joel runs a tight ship. “So I must resist your very tempting offer.”
“Your loss,” she says, then pops the bite in her mouth and moans around it.
Kill. Me. Now.
I try to focus on something else. Anything. What did we last talk about? Oh, right. Math. “But I admit that arithmetic has its uses.”
She brandishes her fork as if to punctuate my point. “I will see your arithmetic and will add fractions.”
“Caught you there. Fractions are percentages, Miss Polka Dot,” I say. “You can’t count them twice.”
“I know that. Do you have something against synonyms now too? Sheesh. Sometimes we need more than one way of saying something,” she says, a little challenging. “I say we keep fractions and percentages.”
Am I actually getting turned on by her fast brain? Oh hell yes, I am. “I would never, ever want to abolish synonyms,” I say.
“I probably wouldn’t return here if you did. That’d be the end of this whole thing,” she says, waving from me to her.
This thing.
Could this thing lead to one hot night?
Devil says yes.
I should fill in for Iris’s hubby more often. “Shame. I wouldn’t want that to happen. So, on our favorites list, we’ll keep synonyms, percentages, and how about . . .” My gaze drifts toward the window as the sun shines, unseasonably warm, on an April afternoon. “We add sunny days in April.”
She hums her approval. “It sounds like we have an agreement, then.”
“I believe we do, Miss Polka Dot,” I say, and I’m this close to asking her out for coffee.
Coffee’s just coffee, after all. It won’t even count as breaking my no-dating-this-year vow. And coffee could lead to one hot night between the sheets.
But before I can ask, the door swings open, and a gaggle of teenage girls pours in. So much for synonyms for dating.
4
Name That Crush
Veronica
* * *
He’s busy.
No big deal. He runs the place, I bet, so I’ll come back another time.
I don’t want to be pushy. I do want to give him time to do his job. But when I finish my treat, the place is still a zoo.
I bus my own plate, setting it in the wash bin under the utensil counter, then I spin back around. The line still snakes around the display case. Another time.
I catch his eye and wave as I mouth, goodbye.
He gives a what-can-you-do smile, then waves back.
I leave, a little happier and a little sadder.
A few days later, nerves sweep through my chest as I near Peace of Cake. I can turn around. Abandon this mission. Grab a book, curl up with my pets, watch a show with Ellie.
I don’t need to see that man again. I don’t need to get his name. I can just go.
But then I remember the way I felt when he looked into my eyes—swoopy.
Nerves be damned. I’m doing this. My flats click-clack across the sidewalk as I near the white shop with its pink and green awning, its sparkling window, its promise of culinary pleasure.
I want other pleasures, and I want to explore them with him.
Deep breath.
I grab the door and head inside.
My shoulders drop, my heart thudding to the ground.
He’s not behind the counter. Some other guy is—a teenager with red hair and a freckled face.
I march up to him. “Hi, I’m wondering if that guy with the beard and the blue eyes is here?” I ask, and wow, I sound like a creepy stalker.
His brow knits. “Oh, Joel’s friend. Nope. He doesn’t work here. He was helping out that day.”
I swallow past the weirdness of my next question. “Oh, does he have a name?”
The guy scratches his chin. “Michael? Matthew? Mateo? One of those. If not, it was definitely Robert,” he says, then another customer strolls in, and I feel exactly twelve hundred percent sillier than I felt five minutes ago.
Hmm. I guess I do need percentages.
A couple weeks later, I’m pacing across my balcony, trying to figure out what I want to write about for my third column. The first two ticked their way to the top of The Dating Pool’s most popular article list, so I need to keep the streak alive.
I walk along my tiny patio, back and forth past the little ceramic pots in my city garden, mulling over ideas.