Page 2 of The Grump I Loathe
My phone buzzed with a reminder. Fifteen minutes until the panel. “Anything else?” I muttered under my breath. “Come on…”
“Excuse me?” The guy whirled around on the heel of his probably very expensive loafer, his eyes narrowed in response.
My breath caught as I finally got a look at his face. Okay, the Cilantro Cop was less chicken-and-quinoa-exec and more male-model-hiding-at-a-geek-convention, but that was beside the point.
I blinked at him. All six-foot something of him. His dark, slightly tousled hair was graying at the temples in that way all men wished they could pull off. He had a bit of scruff on his cheeks, the kind of jawline that would make a concept artist drool, and eyes so brown they were almost black. Or maybe that was just the hatred built up in his hard gaze.
Damn him for being this infuriating and this unfairly attractive.
It was like the universe’s idea of a cruel joke.
“Did you need something?” he demanded, his words clipped.
“Nope, sorry. Proceed.” I gestured to the counter, a part of me wondering why I’d backed down. “Just…maybe keep in mind the size of the line behind you. We’d sure appreciate it if you could move this along a little faster.”
He looked me up and down for a long moment, as if he was weighing whether my words were worth considering. He must have decided they weren’t, because he turned back around without another word to me and proceeded to demand ingredient lists for all the sauces.
Picky Peter had just graduated from Cilantro Cop to Sauce Inspector.
God have mercy.
I could hear the people in line behind us grumbling. I wasn’t the only one who was getting fed up. But Iwasthe only one within pokingdistance of Mr. Tall, Dark, and Steamy, so that made it my duty to step in. I tapped him on the shoulder. Nicely.
“Look, you obviously need a minute to sort out your sauces and whatnot. Maybe you could just step aside while you do that, and I could get my order in. It’ll be super quick. I swear.”
There was radio silence from those broad shoulders. The guy didn’t even turn to tell me no. He just flat out ignored me.Rude.
“Hey,” I said, an edge to my voice. Panic was setting in. I needed to eat. “I’m not making unreasonable requests here.” Still nothing from him. The next time I prodded him in the shoulder, I wasn’t so nice about it.
“What is your problem?” he snapped, finally turning around again.
“Myproblemis that I’ve got”—I checked my phone—“ten minutes before I absolutely have to be at a panel, and you’re ordering so slowly that it’ll be time fornextyear’s convention before anyone behind you can actually place their order.”
I was officially hangry now. If I had any hope of getting through the panel without my stomach growls being heard through the mike, I needed to eat.
He huffed or snorted. Either way, the puff of air was dismissive.
“What I’m doing,” he said, taking a step closer, those dark eyes boring into me in a way that made me hot and cold all at once, “is standing in line like a civilized human being. Novel concept, I know.” His gaze flicked down to my shirt, lingered there for a beat, then he looked back up with a smirk. “Maybe you should Ctrl+S it for future reference.”
My hands curled into fists, the condescending dismissal sending a familiar spike of frustration through me. I’d spent the morning working my butt off at my booth getting people to pay attention to mygame and actually give it a chance. I believed in my work. IknewI’d made something good.
And yet…
I was young, I was female, and I had a limited list of credits, all of which added up to me having to hustle to get anyone to take me seriously. And this guy’s dismissiveness on top of everyone else’s was the straw that broke the very hungry camel’s back.
“I don’t have an issue waiting,” I said slowly. “I have an issue with you wasting everyone’s time.Youmight be free to spend all day asking a million questions and trying to substitute every item on a simple chicken quesadilla, but the rest of us actually have things to do and places to be at this convention.”
I heard murmurs of agreement from the people behind me, and their support galvanized me to take another step forward. “So why don’t you step off to the side there and do whatever chemical analysis you’re into on the sauces, and I’ll just order real quick. ’Kay? Thanks.”
“’Kay?” he said, like the word had personally offended him.
It was my turn to ignore him. I locked eyes with the kid behind the counter. “Hey, can I get a number four with?—”
“Absolutely not,” Picky Peter said, bumping me out of the way. “Why do you assume you can just cut in line?”
“Um, maybe because you’re nottreatingit like a line? You’re treating it like this is your own personal restaurant built to cater solely to you. Lines are supposed tomove,” I said, nudging him with my hip. The contact sent an annoying little jolt through me. The kind that made me want to either punch him or…something else entirely.
Neither of which I had time for.
