Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Excellent question.
She’s about to find out.
I flash a vicious smile at the barista. “I’d like every Regis roll you have, please.”
“Every—all of them? Every single one?” The poor barista blinks.
“Correct.”
“Umm—there are three—almost four dozen today if we’re counting what’s in the back. Are you sure you—”
“All four dozen, then. A nice easy number.”
“Whoa. You and your people must really love them, huh?”
I nod like I have a human soul.
In fact, the damn things are too sweet for me by far. After I drop off a few for Wyatt, I’ll put the rest out for my senior staff. They all adore these overhyped cinnamon rolls as much as everyone else in this easily impressed city.
My own satisfaction ends with the roll witch behind me, deprived of her cherished fix today.
I turn slowly, casting a heavy look over my shoulder at her.
“Would you look at that? Some raging asshole just bought the last Regis roll. Maybe he’ll share if you offer him an insane amount of money for one—or, better, how about an apology? Or maybe he’ll just bite into it and lick his fingers like a cat walking away from a milk truck spill.”
She smiles so sweetly, but her eyes are blazing green daggers.
“Nah. I don’t hand out exorbitant sums for cinnamon rolls or apologies to jerkwads I never wronged. I make financial decisions with my brain, not my stomach. You should try it sometime,” she snarls. “Also, I’m happy for the asshole who got the cinnamon rolls. He clearly must be missing something in his shriveled little ego and needs to overcompensate.”
Damn her.
Damn her again for making that little sliver of space between her thumb and forefinger.
Oh, baby girl, if only you knew. No woman ever calls me little.
“I’ll have you know, I woke up with a mad craving for a bear claw this morning,” she continues, batting her lashes. “I’d hate to think my friends at Sweeter Grind put all that work into Regis rolls that went to waste.”
For a second, I want to walk up to her, stare her into the ground, and tell her what’s at stake.
How these rolls are the only way to keep a homeless man alive while he’s in his funk.
Deprive him, fuck me over for a laugh, and you’re single-handedly responsible for starving a veteran. I hope that helps you sleep at night.
Of course, I say none of those things.
This girl may have a taste for tormenting me, and she could be legit crazy. There’s no upside to letting her know anything about me or my real need for these rolls.
“Nice cope, lady. You can’t prefer a bear claw over a Regis roll. No one does,” I growl.
What am I saying? I don’t even like these stupid pastries.
I have no earthly idea why everyone hyperventilates over them ever since this little Montana cafe opened in Seattle. I just know that they do.
A voice in the back of my mind whispers, You know it’s not her fault that Wyatt didn’t eat. Wyatt had debilitating problems long before you couldn’t buy him his daily cinnamon roll.
“Whatever, entitled douchebag,” she huffs out.
For a second, I stop and glare.
“Just what makes you think I’m entitled? Because I offered you a car payment for your cinnamon roll?”
“Nope. You were pissed because I got the last cinnamon roll in spite of my being here before you, and then you didn’t just offer to buy it. You offered me more than some people make in a week for it. Like I said, I make financial decisions with my brain. No one who works for their money would have offered five hundred bucks for a freaking roll that would be available again the next day. You need your own hashtag. #BornRich.”
What the fuck is she talking about?
“Watch your step. You might have no idea who you’re talking to,” I warn.
“Oh, I have a pretty good idea. Someone who doesn’t get how much money that is.”
“You don’t think I know it’s a lot? Obviously, if someone is willing to pay five hundred dollars for a damn roll, it’s important to them. Any sane person would’ve snapped up the offer.”
I hate how good she is at hooking her little claws under my skin.
I can feel my blood boiling.
“Oh, please. Forgive me if I found my Regis roll craving just as important as your five-hundred-dollar craving. And who am I talking to? Why don’t you enlighten me? Are you some European prince? Royalty? Should I curtsy to His Majesty, Grand Duke of Dickheadistan?”
I have to bite my cheek to hold in a laugh. I hope this firecracker moonlights in stand-up comedy.
“You’re a riot. And if there is such a country, it sounds like they’d better make you an ambassador. You’re fluent in the neighboring asshole dialect.”
She shrugs, finally taken aback, glancing away sharply.
“I was being serious. You suck,” she says, still avoiding my eyes.