Page 5 of The Problem with Princes
I sit in my seat, watching the corner for movement before I finally stand up. My nervous energy isn’t allowing me to sit any longer.
I pace back and forth a few laps. What does one do in a situation like this? I mean, obviously, I need to tell someone what I’ve seen. People don’t fiddle with undercarriages just for fun. Unless the guy is a mechanic. But I doubt this was a case of a random act of auto repair.
I run my hands down the side of my legs, both as a nervous habit and to dry the sweat on my palms. I wince when the action rubs my jeans against my burns.
Leaving my water bottle and pastry box on the table, I walk into the bakery. I need to tell the driver what I saw. Because I’m pretty sure he didn’t see anything.
Texie is still keeping vigil over the baklava tray.
“Hey, I am going to walk over to the coffee shop across the street and see if they have any hot cocoa. Do you want to come?” There is a slight tremor in my voice, but Texie seems oblivious to it. Her full focus is on the glass case. She seriously needs to eat carbs more often.
She shakes her head. “No. I think she said the baklava is too hot to cut yet. But it shouldn’t be very much longer.” Her brow crinkles. “I’m surprised you can even think about coffee after what just happened.”
I shake my head and give her a snarky look. “That’s why I’m getting cocoa. Duh…” I hold the word out for the length of at least two heart beats.
“Hot is hot. The type of beverage is just semantics.”
Ah, I love it when she uses her lawyer reasoning on me. “Do you want some or not? That is the question, counselor.” I sound snippy, but my anxiety rises the longer I stand there. What if MA has already left while I’ve been arguing with Texie? The guy is a total jerk face, but I still don’t think he deserves to have whatever skateboard guy is trying to do, happen to him. I frown. I’m not even making sense.
“Yeah, get me one, please.” Texie withdraws her wallet from her purse, but I wave it aside.
“I got this one,” I call over my shoulder as I hurry out the door. “If I’m not back before you’re ready to leave, can you grab my water and pastry from the table outside?”
Texie nods.
I’m relieved to see the three SUVs still parked on the street. I walk to the driver’s window on the middle one and I knock.
He’s turned away from me, and visibly jumps in his seat which makes me grin slightly.
He must have been asleep. He rolls the window down a crack. “Metakinitheíte makriá apó to aftokínito.”
“I will move away, but I need to tell you something first.” I lift my chin up as if that will make my voice float through the cracked window more efficiently.
He glares at me and rolls the window back up. I grit my teeth. How can such a beautiful country have such a loser male population?
I’m half tempted to walk back to the bakery and let whatever skateboard guy has planned just happen. I mean, I tried, right? What is my obligation here?
My stomach twists. “Fine,” I grumble.
I walk in front of the middle SUV and glare at the driver as he watches me with narrowed eyes.
Pushing into the little shop, the smell of burned coffee assaults my nostrils and my stomach lurches for a new reason. I hate the smell of coffee, to the extent that I avoid that aisle in the grocery store. The day Target put a Starbuck’s in my neighborhood store was the beginning of the end of a beautiful relationship. Our relationship is mostly online now.
I think I may throw up. How would MA feel aboutthaton his shoes. Maybe the small drops of coffee won’t seem so bad anymore. I pinch my eyes shut, trying to squelch the roiling in my stomach. My fists clench at my side. I can do this. It’s just coffee.
The shop is busier than I would have guessed for the middle of the morning. I look around until I see MA and his well-dressed wrestlers in a booth toward the back. They are kind of hard to miss.
I walk over—my hands are sweating again—and I stand in front of their table. “Excuse me.” I can carry on the conversation in Greek, but part of me doesn’t want to let Jerk Face know that I can understand him when he speaks his native language. It gives me the upper hand. And I want the upper hand with him.
He looks up, and I feel his disinterest even from behind his sunglasses.
Who wears sunglasses inside anyway? Who does he think he is? Bono? I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from walking out of the shop.
“Hey. It’s me again. You remember? The stupid person who bumped into you?” I know I should not have said that, but I can’t help myself. “Yeah, anyway. I was across the street at the pastry shop just now—”
He lowers his sunglasses slightly and for a moment, something about him seems familiar. Maybe it’s just the universal aura of the entitled. His eyes go up and down the length of my body, at least what is visible above the tabletop. He gives a barely perceptible nod of his head.
I squint at him. What does that mean? Is he insinuating he doesn’t doubt I like pastries or is it more of a he wouldn’t have guessed I liked pastries kind of thing? Whatever it is, it flusters me. And I’m irritated, because I realize that even though he is a complete jerk, I’m strangely attracted to him. I actually care what his assessment of me is. Now I don’t know who I’m more irritated at, him or me.
