Page 120 of The Love of My Next Life
My 2000’s pop punk playlist, the one I reserve for post-bar shifts, is blaring in my ears, and I head to aisle six, where they keep the baking stuff. I scan the shelf, find what I need and go to grab for it, then stop.
Shit. This store actually has pure vanilla extract. I drop my hand. I was gonna get the imitation stuff—it’s what I’ve been using—but if I want to win this contest, I need quality ingredients.
Shit. Eight freaking bucks for two ounces? I can get eight ounces of the imitation for $1.99.
I groan. This hurts. Like actually flipping hurts.
It’s that poor kid mentality. I’ll probably never outgrow it.
I sigh, resigned, and reach for the pure vanilla, just as another hand snatches it from the shelf. I whip around keeping my eyes on the precious bottle—the only one this stupid convenience store has—and huff.
I’m about to pop off and put this snatchy thief in their place, but my attention is stolen by the hand that’s holding the bottle. A big hand. A strong hand.A sexyhand.
Hmm.
I scan my eyes upward. A few woven bracelets are tied loosely around the thick wrist, and a dusting of hair covers the muscular, rigid, golden forearm.
That’s aniceforearm, right there.
I move my gaze farther up, over a defined bicep and a broad chest covered in a blue and white baseball-style t-shirt with a silver necklace of some sort hiding just beneath the collar. The defined jaw is sporting a bit of dark brown scruff, and soft, chestnut hair feathers just above the shoulders.
I expand my focus, enough to study the whole hairstyle, to find it loose, kinda messy, with a bit of a wave to it.
Prince-haired Harry hair.
When the mouth moves, I flick my eyes down to it to find plump lips quirked in a bit of a smile, and they move again.
The hulking man is speaking.
“Huh?” All I can hear is Patrick Stump in my ears.
His mouth moves a third time, the tiny smile turning into a full-blown grin, showing off straight, white teeth.
Then I watch in slow motion as the other hand, the one not holding my bottle of pure vanilla hostage, rises up and tugs one of my earbuds out of my ear.
“You said Prince Harry,” he says with a laugh.
“No, I said prince-hairedHarry,” I correct. “And I didn’t realize I’d said it out loud.”
“Oh,” he says, voice low and playful, and raises an eyebrow in question. I raise mine in response but don’t speak, and he laughs. “Are you okay?”
I bristle. “I’m fine.”
“I wasn’t sure. You’re kinda just standing there staring.”
“I was sizing up my new enemy.” I tug out my other earbud.
“Enemy?” He laughs again. It’s a good laugh. Deep and vibratey. Yes, I just made up that word. The laugh is unique. It deserves its own word.
“You just stole that vanilla from me. I don’t make it a habit to befriend thieves.”
“I didn’t steal it. I just got it before you.” He’s still smiling. It’s an attractive smile, damn it.
“I was clearly here first. I was clearly reaching for that bottle when you jumped out of nowhere and snatched it.” I put my hand on my hip and pop it out. My roommate Ivy calls it my power pose. She says it’s how she knows when I’m in a ‘take-no-prisoners’ mode.
“You were here first, yeah. But you were standing there surveying the shelf for a pretty long time,” he says with a smirk. “Some of us have places to be. It’s not thieving to just sneak past ya and grab what I need.”
“It’s line jumping, which everyone knows is poor social etiquette, and it is thieving, because that bottle is mine.”
