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The owner of the pup turned to see the man with her dog in his arms, and she looked horrified—not by her dog almost losing its life, but by the man who was holding on to the animal.
She snatched her pet away from him and started waving her hands in the air yet again, seemingly cussing him out for saving her pet.
What in the world is wrong with her?
Sure, he was known as the town asshole, but at that moment, he was a dang superhero! She should’ve been thanking the jerk for his heroic act. Instead, she was cussing him out as if he was the cause of the incident. Mr. Personality stood tall and didn’t yell back at her. In fact, he didn’t say a word. His full lips stayed pressed together, and he didn’t seemed bothered by said woman in the least. Not a raised eyebrow and not a single smile or frown on his lips.
He just seemed…blank.
Completely disconnected from the aggression being blasted his way.
He was better than me at that moment, that was for certain. If it were me, I would’ve invented curse words using every letter in the alphabet.
As she kept hollering, Mr. Personality turned and walked away from her, leaving the woman with her word vomit and bad pet owner skills.
The bell over the door dinged as he walked into the café. He took a seat at a corner booth, opened a menu, straightened his ballcap, and lowered his head, curving his massive shoulders forward as he studied the menu with too many options.
Why did he do that?
Why did he freaking have to save a pup from oncoming traffic?
Why did he have to make it so hard for me to dislike him?
Mr. Personality was built like a superhero. From his chiseled jawline to his biceps-on-biceps arms, that man probably could’ve stopped a highspeed train using his man-of-steel chest. It was a shame that when I crossed his path, his people skills didn’t match his apparent gym skills. Then again, that would’ve made him too good to be true.
“If you wanted a plate of salt with a steak and eggs on the side, you could’ve just asked,” a friendly voice offered, snapping my stare from Mr. Personality to the food I’d been mindlessly shaking salt onto for the past five minutes.
“Sorry,” I muttered, placing the saltshaker on the table and lowering myself back down in my seat. I glanced back out at the window to find the woman yelling at her dog for being disobedient.
I felt bad for the dog. The owner seemed like a truly disrespectful person.
“No need to be sorry. We all have our quirky habits,” the friendly voice promised.
My eyes moved to the guy speaking. He had thin rose-colored lips and green eyes hidden behind a pair of glasses. His eyes had this talent of being able to smile all on their own. His cheeks were covered in red freckles that matched his spiked orangish-red hair. I took in his name tag and grinned as I read it out loud. “Marty.” He looked exactly how I would’ve imagined a Marty to look. Kind of slim, but very tall. Kind of nerdy, but oddly handsome.
“That’s me,” he said, his lips turning up to match his smiling eyes. “Can I get you another steak and scrambled eggs?”
I hesitated, debating if I wanted to spend more money. Even though Yoana had been determined to shove money into my pockets, I declined. I still had enough in my savings from my books, but with the way I was writing—or not writing—I didn’t know when more money would come my way. Each nickel needed to matter.
Marty must have been a mind reader because he followed up his offer by saying it would be on the house.
“You wouldn’t get in trouble for that?” I asked, my stomach rumbling louder than I wanted it to. A level of embarrassment ran through me as I looked down at my salt-covered plate to avoid his concerned eyes.
“Ah, it’s no big deal. My dad owns the place.” He cleared his throat and leaned in to whisper, “I’ll score you some extra toast, too.” Marty lifted my plate off the table after picking it up and placing it back down a total of four times. I didn’t mention the odd behavior, but I did offer him a smile.
He looked about my age, maybe a year or so younger.
There was this odd struggle I saw happening in Marty’s eyes as he reached for the saltshaker once and placed it back on the table. He lifted it again, placed it down once more. This same action happened two more times, for a total of four. I arched an eyebrow to see his cheeks redden from some kind of shame.
“Sorry.” He laughed nervously. “Just a bad case of OCD.” He flinched at his words and my lips turned down. It was apparent that his obsessive-compulsive disorder was something he tried his best to hide but was unable to conceal.
