Page 4 of At First Smile
“Buffalo’s not home?”
“Not anymore.” I shake my head.
Rowan’s hat brim shadows the upper half of his face, making it hard to read his expression. Reading facial expressions isn’t my forte. Even with the limited vision I do have, it’s often difficult to make out the tiny cues that can be found in someone’s face. Aunt Bea always talked about the stories in the eyes. Those are stories I’m unable to read. If I’m close enough and the lightis just right, I can make out some of the little eyebrow ticks, lip quirks, or forehead wrinkles.
My stories come from the voice and energy. Everyone has a kind of energy they exude. It may make me sound like the lady with a different crystal for each day of the week, but it’s something I’ve learned to trust.
Right now, the energy coming off Rowan telegraphs annoyance, but I don’t think it’s directed at me. Despite my oversharing, his broad frame remains mere inches away. His obscured gaze fixed on me.
He nods. “I get it. I’ve only lived in L.A. for three years and it feels more like home than Hamilton where I grew up.”
“Canadian boy, eh?”
He snorts at the terrible joke laced in my even worse Canadian accent.
Smirking, I raise my tea to my lips. “So, how did a nice Canadian lad end up in L.A.?”
His hand rubs his neck. “Work.”
“What do you do for wo?—”
“Christ,” he groans, yanking out his cell from his back pocket. “Sorry, this is the fourth call in a row that I’ve ignored. I need to take this.”
“Sure.” I smile.
Holding the phone up, he grumbles, “This best be important.” Pivoting, he strides away from the counter.
“Ma’am.” The cashier holds up two bags with what I suspect are our breakfast sandwiches.
With a nodded “thank you,” I take them. In literally five seconds, I’ve lost Rowan. Scanning the now bustling food court, he’s disappeared into the crowd. Do I wait? Do I try to track him down? Do I just take his sandwich in hopes that I run into him again? What if he comes back and thinks I stole his sandwich? Although, I paid for it, so it’s not stealing.
“Excuse me, do you see that man I was with?” I ask the cashier.
“He went over there.” She points.
“Where? Can you verbally explain?” I hold up Cane Austen in a nonverbal reminder that pointing is not the best way to give direction to the visually impaired.
“Oh, sorry.” The blush can be heard in her voice. “Far right corner… My right, not yours.”
“Thanks.”
Turning, I set off listening for his voice. Moving through the crowd, I make my way toward the far-right corner. Voice recognition is the best way for me to find people in large gatherings. Although, it’s not ideal with someone I just met, there’s something about Rowan’s voice that has imprinted on me, both distinct yet familiar. Like nothing I’ve heard before but somehow something as well-known to me as my own.
“Damnit, I told you I don’t want to do that,” Rowan growls.
I halt. Not because I’ve found him, but due to the frustration underscoring his words. He’s pissed.
“This is fucking bullshit.”
Reallypissed.
With his back to me, he carries on in an annoyed mutter with no idea I’m standing behind him, eavesdropping. It’s not intentional, but I’m listening, nonetheless. Granted, my relationship with Rowan is five minutes old, but this anger reads wrong on him. Like an ill-fitting Halloween costume. Also, I’m not going to overthink my use of the word relationship.
Raking my teeth against my lower lip, I clutch the sandwich bag. I should turn, run away, and give the sandwich back to the cashier. Let them give it to the angry man. Not because I’m scared. There’s no nip of fear telling me to stay away. Rather, it’s more like witnessing someone do something they don’t want to do.
“You’re being a real motherfucker,” he snarls, causing a few onlookers to clear their throats.
Ouch.I don’t blame them. His tone is harsh.
