Her eyes laser in on the display case. It’s nearly empty, cleared out for the night. Two lonely sandwiches sit behind the glass. Scratch that. Two perfect, shining beacons of vegan salvation sit on little trays, stacked like a divine reward for surviving a flight with no legroom, a seatmate who used the armrestandmanspread into her personal space, and a dinner comprised of six pretzels.
“Oh thank God,” she mutters under her breath, nearly falling to her knees with gratitude.
The young woman behind the counter looks bored out of her mind, half-heartedly restocking napkins. Naomi doesn’t care. She strides to the register with conviction
“I’ll take one of those sandwiches. Actually, no—both.” She slaps her card on the counter for emphasis.
Then the bell jingles again.
The cashier’s bored expression perks up like a wilted houseplant watered for the first time in weeks as she looks over Naomi’s shoulder.
Naomi looks.
And—
Oh.
The man ducking through the doorway istall. Not normal tall. Not “ohmigod did you play basketball in high school” tall. He’s tall in a way that should come with a warning label and structural permits. Six-foot-six, easy. Broad shoulders under a slouchy hoodie, beanie pulled low, tattoos curling along his forearm and down the back of one massive hand.
He oozes don’t-talk-to-me energy that clears a ten-foot radius. Not rude—just entirely uninterested. His blue eyes catch hers and it’s like being pinned in place by a blast of Arctic wind.
Her mouth waters for an entirely different reason now, but her stomach growls, dragging her focus back to the mission at hand.
She turns back to the cashier and points at the sandwiches. “Those please.”
The young woman winces, giving Naomi an apologetic little head tilt that does nothing to soothe the sudden wave of dread crashing over her.
“Oh, sorry. Those are for him.”
Naomi blinks, her brain scrambling to find the step she must have missed. She can't have heard that correctly. The cashier just told her that those sandwiches, her only hope for sustenance, belong to the man who arrivedafterher.
“I’m sorry?”
The cashier shrugs as if she’s explained the law of the land. “He’s a regular. We always save him two.”
She gestures with a nod—and Naomi turns slowly. She has to tilt her head back. And back. Her neck cracks in protest. At this point, she’s basically staring at the ceiling tiles.
He’s staring down at her. Expression blank. Eyes annoyingly blue.
“Excuse me?” she says, voice pitching higher. “I was here first.”
The man—the Sandwich Swindler, as she will now refer to him in her memoir—just stares. No apology. No emotion of any kind.
Naomi casts her gaze around the empty café, searching witnesses to this blatant food theft and who could validate her growing sense of betrayal. The little café is cozy, with exposed brick walls and faded leather chairs arranged near the front windows. The chalkboard menu has been half-erased, its daily specials smudged to ghostly outlines. Chairs are flipped onto tables, and the display case is bare, save for a few sad crumbs that only make her feel more robbed.
She turns back to the cashier, trying to keep her face even, neutral. It’s not working. The irritation’s bubbling up fast and hot in her chest, and though she’s aiming for composed, she’s pretty sure her voice comes out shrill.
“He doesn’t needbothsandwiches. Look at him. If he eats any more he won’t fit inside.”
Behind her, a deep, lazy voice rumbles. “Wouldn’t want to get any taller. Ceiling fans are already dangerous.”
She whirls toward him. “What?”
“Blades,” he says, like it’s obvious. He lifts his gaze toward the ceiling. “They’re everywhere. Gotta stay alert.”
Is this real life?
She looks back at the cashier, who’s wrapping the sandwiches at a glacial pace, unmoved by Naomi’s slow emotional collapse.
