Public transport in LA was a joke.
Without my own car, I had no other means of getting around. Back home—I was spoiled. Not only did I have my own car, but
a boyfriend who made sure it turned on and got me from A to B.
The bus ride was uneventful; folks keeping to themselves and staring out the window in a dull state of mind. I had planned to stop off at a coffee shop near a place called The Grove. According to an old newspaper that I found at our doorstep, it was a popular place to shop and eat with many celebrities that frequented the joint. Not that I cared. I just wanted to get my hands on this ridiculously expensive cake to say thank you for employing me even though I was a rambling mess.
The coffee shop is busy; many people occupying the small tables that were scattered around. The glass display is full of delicious desserts. Rows and rows of mouth-watering sweets, making my stomach growl loudly enough that the lady carrying a tiny rat-looking dog in her purse—takes notice.
“The caramel baked cheesecake with crushed Oreos and peanut butter cups, please.”
The cashier, Sarah, packs the cake into a silver box, sliding it over the counter as I hand her some cash. Politely saying thank you, I turn around deciding to open the carton just to catch another glimpse of this oh-so-perfect cake.
The side of the lid gets caught in the corner. I nudge it slightly to close it shut again until all of a sudden, my body slams into another person causing me to gasp loudly.
“Hey, watch where you’re going!”
Frazzled, I look up to see an annoyed guy wearing a thick leather jacket, standing in front of me, arm draped around a pretty girl and carrying a helmet in his spare hand. She appears to be amused by something, and following her eyes, I stare down at my white dress which is covered in Oreos. Shit. Shit. SHIT!
“Might want to do something about that dress of yours,” he snorts, arrogantly, twitching his hazel eyes with a fiendish grin.
“Excuse me?” Perhaps I’m overreacting, but this moron just cost me thirty dollars. Who does this asswipe think he is? “How about you learn to have some manners!”
I wasn’t the type of person to raise my voice at a stranger, usually controlled and able to walk away from such nonsense. Yet something about the way he made me feel like a pathetic nobody just rubbed me the wrong way.
He—and his Hollywood bimbo—didn’t deserve any more of my time. The damage was done, I had a ruined cake and equally ruined dressed. Of course I had to wear white today!
I turn back around with a red face, greeting Sarah at the counter. I could see the sympathy in her eyes together with a disappointed smile.
“You know what?” Sarah is examining the damage. “I’m sure Mona can quickly fix the top. Saves you having to buy another.”
Sarah disappears into the kitchen only to return with a smile, asking me to wait for a few minutes while Mona fixed the icing. She hands me a small cloth which I use to carefully wipe the excess cake off my dress.
Mr. Dick (as I liked to call him starting from this moment) moves closer to the counter, ordering a triple-shot coffee as if he didn’t do anything. I stand, waiting, impatiently tapping my feet with my arms crossed to cover the hideous stain. I had no time to go get changed let alone spend money on another dress.
He hands over a credit card, trying to eye-flirt with Sarah.
“You know, you might want to watch where you’re walking. Head buried in a cake box is probably not the smartest thing to do.”
“Neither is being a dick,” I mumble under my breath.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite get that. It’s bad manners not to make eye contact with someone when you speak.”
My head moves swiftly, eyes wide open, staring at this arrogant ass. He wasn’t the first arrogant asshole I had encountered in the four days I had been here. LA was full of them.
“You want to talk to me about making eye contact? I think you just told me to watch where I was walking but at the same time, you were flirting with Sarah.”
Sarah almost drops the coffee in her hand, embarrassed that she enjoyed his attention.
He takes the cup and turns to face me, giving me a better chance to get a glimpse of the face attached to the asshole personality.
The first thing I notice is how light his eyes are: hazel colored. Light in comparison to the dark beard that sits across the bottom half of his face. His olive complexion makes them stand out but beneath them is dark bags. Tired, worn out—something about him looked aged.
Without trying to make it look obvious, a scar on the side of his jawline catches my attention. It has a pinkish tinge, looking fresh from some accident and buried in his overgrown beard.
“Are you done looking at me now?”
I pull back, unaware I was that obvious.