AllFreeNovel
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It’s a woman.
A tall, slender woman with shiny hair the color of chocolate, eyes the most delicious shade of caramel, vanilla-ice-cream skin, and a mouth as ripe as?—
Fuck. I need to eat so I can stop seeing the whole world in food terms.
Then my eyes fall on my breakfast, the thing I’ve been fantasizing about.
It’s gone.
This thief ate it.
No.
Fuck, no.
“Who are you?” I jerk the headphones off my ears. “And why did you eat my fucking breakfast?”
The stranger’s hands go to her hips. “I’m renting this place. Who are you?”
So, this is Brooklyn… from Brooklyn. “You’re not renting anything yet,” I grit out. “Last I checked, New York and Palm Islet are in the same time zone, and it’s not yet eleven-thirty in either place.”
She takes a step back, but then her eyes go slitty. “So… this is what passes for customer service around here?”
My jaw ticks. “Let me reiterate. You’re not a customer. Not yet. You’re more like a trespasser, and around these parts, they often get shot.”
“Ah, so you’re full-on psycho?” She scans me without the fear that should come along with her statement. As her gaze lands on my hand, her eyes widen. “Is that a ripped-up stuffed animal?”
Shit. I’ve been clutching the late Pikachu like a stress ball. Maybe I do look like a psycho… or worse, like the stereotype of a native Floridian.
I open the trash and bury Pikachu’s remains there without a eulogy. “The little brat who left this morning stuffed that toy into the garbage disposal.”
Brooklyn lifts her pointed little chin. “So not only are you rude, you also hate children.”
Hate children? My hackles rise higher. I’ve heard that accusation before—granted, under different circumstances—and it’s as untrue as it is infuriating.
“What else?” she continues. “Do you punch old ladies in your spare time?”
Are these hypothetical old ladies part of the HOA? Either way, I’d never punch one… no matter how tempting those particular ladies sometimes make the proposition.
“I’m rude?” I gesture at my would-be meal. “I didn’t sneak in and eat your food.”
“Can’t you let that go already?” She plants her feet wider, like a boxer ready to go another round. “I thought the tapas were here as a warm welcome. Clearly, you don’t know the meaning of the term.”
“Tapas?” I wipe a bead of sweat off my brow. “That was a traditional Japanese breakfast.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Salmon for breakfast?”
I blow out a frustrated breath. “Now you’re dissing a whole culture?”
“No,” she says. “Just you.”
“Don’t New Yorkers put lox on their bagels?” I say. “That’s salmon too.”
She scoffs. “Doesn’t everyone put lox on their bagels?”
Touché. Also, thinking of a bagel with lox makes my stomach rumble so loudly that she does a double take. Then, for the first time, something resembling guilt appears on her face.
“Look,” she says. “Obviously, if I had known it was your food, I wouldn’t have eaten it.”
