Page 15 of Entangled

Gram’s room immediately battles back against my rising anger, the airy energy it exudes combating the turbulent emotions within me. It’s all whitewashed furniture topped off with creams and a few touches of sage here and there. I look down at the floral cream patchwork quilt pooled around my waist and let out a breath of release.

Yeah, definitely not bringing any cabernet into this room.

I throw back the covers and stand from the bed, my head giving a more insistent throb with the movement. Sending me immediately to the kitchen on a desperate hunt for caffeine. Surprisingly, I had never been a coffee drinker like my peers growing up. High on life and well, maybe the occasional delightful sativa, that was me. But several months ago in one of the most idyllic cafés in Italy that had all changed.

Now, I was the proud owner of a shirt that declared I was not fit for public consumption before caffeine. So my frustration twenty minutes later as I sit on the kitchen floor with only a box of chamomile tea in hand is pretty freaking understandable if you ask me. Every cabinet and drawer is open and staring back at me mockingly.

“Fuck!” I groan out loudly, causing the throb in my head to quickly morph into a harsh pounding.

I really should have just gone to the damn store last night.

Setting the useless box of tea down on the kitchen table with more force than necessary, I walk over to where I dropped my suitcase in the entry yesterday and throw it open. Not caring about the location. It’s not like I’m expecting an abundance of company today anyway. Grabbing my toiletry bag along with whatever shirt my hand lands on first, I head to the little bathroom nestled next to my gram’s room and quickly go about the business of making myself at least moderately presentable.

Ten minutes later my teeth are brushed, my platinum hair thrown up into a messy bun, and I’m stepping out the door in Converse-clad feet wearing last night’s shorts and one of my favorite Bon Jovi concert tees. Yvie had just about fainted when she had seen I made it into a crop top a couple years ago. It was sacrilege apparently.

Hopping into Franny, I pull up my phone and search for a local grocery store, coming up with exactly one result. Perfect. At least that saved me from the surely arduous decision-making process of having to decide between two grocery stores. Beggars couldn’t be choosers though and at this point I’d settle for gas station coffee. I roll my eyes as I plug the address into my GPS and crank up the AC. Popping my oversized sunglasses on as I pull out of the driveway.

Six minutes later, I’m pulling into a parking spot in front of a sandy brick building with large red signage above it proclaiming it as theLocal Mart. And I know it was exactly six minutes because I watched the clock on the dash as my fingers tapped away with agitation during the two stoplights I sat at for the majority of the drive. Landing Point really was the definition of a small town. Blink and you’d miss it. The heat of the sun hits me like a brick wall as I get out of the car and I can’t help but stretch my hands over my head. Unable to resist momentarily basking in its delicious warmth despite my headache.

Not that it didn’t have its place when it came to Christmas and everything but seriously… Fuck the cold. Give me a sun-drenched place to bake in on any day.

I walk through the parking lot, grabbing a cart and popping my sunglasses on the top of my head along the way. The cold of the AC raises goose bumps on my skin as I step into the store and pause, taking in the lay of things. My eyes sweep the length of the small grocery store, seeing that the produce and meats are to my left while aisles run the length of the rest of the store to my right. Just as I’m about to turn my cart toward the aisles, I spot a tiny little pink sign at the back of the store with the wordBakerywritten in neon script.

Oh, thank you, universe. Maybe they have coffee.

I head to the bakery section at a pace that is just short of frantic and quickly find myself engulfed by the smell of butter, sugar and cinnamon. Looking around at all the delicious treats, I can’t help but snag some blueberry scones and cinnamon rolls, dropping them into my cart without an ounce of remorse. But alas, no coffee or clerk to get me coffee is in sight. I sigh in disappointment and head back toward the front of the store. Stopping in front of an orange bin with a firm reminder to myself that I don’t want to get scurvy. I’m in the midst of grabbing a few oranges when a loud voice booms out, causing me to jump.

“Blondie!”

Oh god, no. I freeze in place, orange held uselessly in hand at the midpoint between the shelf and my cart.

No freaking way. This can’t be happening.

“Blondie!” That delighted voice calls again and I cringe in response.

Turning my head to look toward the front of the store, I see Jace swaggering toward me with that brilliant smile on full display and an empty grocery cart in hand. His hair is damp, hanging messily around his shoulders and he’s wearing a loose white tee that looks like it’s about one wash away from falling apart with a pair of men’s joggers slung low on his hips. The shirt is hiking up a bit with his hands on the cart, flashing little peeks of hisVcuts to God and everyone with each step that he takes. Or I guess just to me considering the store is all but empty but seriously…

Fuck my life.

He brings his cart to a stop beside me and drops down, resting his forearms on the handrail and putting us at eye level. His close proximity makes it impossible not to notice the way his shirt is sticking to his skin in places that must still be wet.

“Hey… you,” I drawl out awkwardly. Not even close to being prepared to deal with this situation so soon after last night and in my uncaffeinated state, no less.

His eyes dance with amusement at my obvious discomfort and I can’t help but notice they’re a little more hazel than green under the light of day.

“So I guess you didn’t like the song?”

“Uh, yeah,” I stutter, feeling totally out of my element here. “It’s just…”

I’ve always been the girl who’s the best at this game. Not to mention I’ve never had to explain breakdowns over an ex to someone before because, well, I’ve never had an ex before.

I give a helpless shrug. “Bad memories.”

So lame, El.

“Too bad,” he murmurs, eyeing me intently while bringing a hand up and running his thumb back and forth along his lower lip.

My eyes dart down, following the path of his thumb with rapt attention as desire pulses through me. Even his damn hands are pretty, nails clean and trimmed, a decidedly undervalued trait among men in my opinion. I jolt when something crashes somewhere in the store and snaps me out of my naughty reverie. Quickly jerking my gaze back up, I find a far too pleased expression on his face for my liking.

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