The sun dips toward the horizon, streaking the highway in soft orange, and I know I’m getting close. Unfortunately, the unlimited coffee from IHOP is catching up with me.
A pit stop won’t hurt, and not just because my bladder is begging for one. Getting gas in the city will be a nightmare, and I won’t have time to hunt for a station once the tournament schedule kicks in.
I stop at the next station, fill the tank, and stretch out my back before heading inside to use the restroom. On the way out, I grab a couple bottles of water and some snacks
I’m standing in line at the cashier when someone steps behind me. A faint amber perfume drifts toward me—warm, spicy, and familiar in a way that hooks something at the back of my mind. With furrowed brows, I glance sideways and catch a glimpse of wavy brown hair and sharp posture.
Where have I seen this woman before?
“Next,” both cashiers call at the same time.
I walk to the nearest cashier and drop my purchases on the counter. As I reach for my wallet, my eye snags on a bag of Salted Caramel Twix bars hanging below the register—the last one.
“I’ll grab those too,” I say to the cashier, adding them to the pile. I love these things, and you don’t find them everywhere.
“Do you need a bag?” the cashier asks.
“Yes,please.”
I press my card on the receiver as she bags my items.
“Don't you have more in the back?” The girl next to me grumbles to her cashier, frustration lacing her tone.
“Sorry, we don’t,” he replies with a small shrug. “We get our delivery on Monday.”
“Great,” she mutters, then shootsmean icy glare before dropping a few bills on the counter. “Keep the change.”
She storms off, and I stare after her, blinking in confusion.
What on earth did I do to offend her?
“Sir, your bag.”
“Oh—right.” I turn back to the cashier and take it with a nod. “Thanks. Have a good one.”
I follow the brunette toward the door, and when she glances back, our eyes meet. Hers are a molten, deep brown—warm but piercing, like she sees everything and tolerates little. She immediately swings the door shut behind her, and I almost crash into the glass.
“Hey!” I push the door open and step out into the sticky heat after her.
“Oops,” she says casually, not slowing down. “Didn’t see you.”
I let out a scoff. “Really? I’m a six-foot-three hockey player. I’m not exactly easy to miss.”
“Yes, really,” she fires back, turning around and shooting me a dry look. “Not everyone follows sports or whatever, Mr. Celebrity.”
I freeze, swept up by the familiarity of that nickname. And just like that, it clicks. She’s the girl from the rental place.
“I see you finally got your car.”
She gestures to a black sedan. “Yep, the peasants were thrown a few breadcrumbs once the royalty departed.” She pivots on her heel and marches toward her car.
“Hey! What’s your problem?” I call after her, unable to let it go. “It’s not my fault your rental wasn’t there and mine was, okay?”
She throws a sneer over her shoulder. “Yeah, and it wasn’t your fault you grabbed the last Salted Caramel Twix bag either.”
My eyes widen. “Um, yeah. That’s literallynotmy fault. I don't control the stock of gas station convenience stores.”
She just rolls her eyes. “Forget it.”
