“Good Lord!” The woman huffed, dropping her hands and yanking the kid away before I could give him any sager advice.
Okay, I admit, something very strange had just come over me. I’d had a complete out of body experience. I didn’t even know what I’d been saying.
Until the moment that the world reformed around me, and I realized I’d just put my sex life on display for half of San Francisco.
Some sleazy looking guy walked past, grinning at me and making an abhorrently rude gesture with his hands that was far too disgusting to repeat.
“I am losing it,” I hissed to myself.
A bagel sandwich. That would make this all better. That, and the fact that I knew I was one of the millions in this city, and my sad little display of craziness would be completely forgotten within fifteen minutes.
A New York minute is nothing compared to the lack of an attention span that San Franciscans show.
So I took my crazy little self who had just blown up at some poor dude who wanted to give me a quarter for my sandwich- which I still thought was extremely stingy of him- and hauled ass over to the crowd of photographers, not caring that I was going to have to jostle my way through them in order to get anywhere.
That sandwich was absolutely worth it.
“Rhett, look over here!” One of them was shouting, jumping up and down behind the rest of the photographers, attempting to get the attention of whatever celebrity had decided that now would be the perfect time to become a patron of my bagel shop.
It was ridiculous, really, the way celebrities thought they could just do something like that. Could just wake up one day and decide they wanted a bagel from a tiny little mom and pop place, knowing full well that they’d bring an entire crowd of paparazzi with them, but somehow not caring in the slightest.
“Excuse me,” I said to the guy jumping up and down at the back of the crowd.
But he was too busy staring at the guy in the middle.
Rhett.
I couldn’t even think of a celebrity named Rhett. But then again, I’d never cared all that much for celebrities. That was Henrietta’s job, to know the who’s who of Hollywood, New York, and Miami at any given moment.
My job was so much similar. It was all about crunching numbers and getting an answer.
“Excuse me!” I hollered, a little louder, as the crowd seemed to shrink in on itself.
Still, no one was listening. They were all just shouting at the guy named Rhett, trying to get him to turn every which way and give them a good view of whatever surgically handsome face he had on today.
Finally, I got fed up with standing at the very back of the crowd, waiting for my chance to just get my freaking business before I went home and changed so I didn’t get any other strange men tossing coins in my face with absolutely no warning.
“Listen, lady, get here earlier if you want the money shot next time,” a rougher pap said, elbowing me harshly in the chest.
If I’d thought I’d hit my breaking point when I yelled at that kid earlier, it was nothing compared to the complete blank wall of red I saw the moment that guy elbowed me.
“Yo,” I growled, standing up and shoving him back, just as hard as he’d shoved me. “I just want a sandwich. I don’t care about any celebrity.”
And with that, I used every weapon at my disposal, every elbow and shoulder and foot that I possessed, to literally muscle my way through the crowd and stumble into the center, where I came face to face with someone who was, to my surprise, completely familiar.
But it wasn’t because I’d seen his face in magazines or on any sort of social media.
It was because, not that long ago, I’d sat at a table with him trying to fight the strange little butterflies in my gut that told me to be brave, and bold, and do some flirting.
I’d hardly managed to do it, though. And I’d never seen him again.
Rhett Thompson.
The moment I stumbled into the center of the little ring of paparazzi, the camera flashes stopped, and the yelling came to an abrupt halt.
“Who are you?” Someone shouted rudely, lowering her camera and glowering at me as if I’d purposefully stepped into the center of them like it was some lame little attempt to get my picture in a glossy magazine or over a clickbait filled link on Twitter.
I couldn’t even bring myself to glare at her, though, because I was still staring into Rhett’s beautiful brown eyes, frozen in time as he cocked his head and scrunched his brow.
“If you wanted to get a picture with me, you could have just asked,” he chuckled.
He thought I was a fan. He didn’t even recognize me.
Suddenly, the little butterflies in my stomach turned into a hot, roiling pot of lava, filled with complete embarrassment.
“I don’t want a picture with you,” I replied. “I just want a bagel sandwich. That’s it. I’ve wanted a bagel sandwich for the last five minutes, and all of these people made it nearly impossible for me to get.”
I waved my hand at the cameras and their dirty possessors, indicating that they were my biggest pet peeve, and all Rhett could do was smile.
“Pretty cool, right?” He grinned. “They follow me everywhere. It’s great for my image. Anyone want a soundbite?”
He turned back toward the crowd, and the yells started up nearly instantly. Everyone was hollering questions at him, attempting to get that precious little soundbite for their respective employers.
That embarrassment started to creep up toward my cheeks as I remembered how cute I thought he’d been.
With a huff, I spun around and headed into the little shop, dreading what would happen when I had to come back out.
“Hey, Sarah,” Rhett called, shocking me with the sudden use of my name.
So he did recognize me.
“What?” I snapped, turning back around.
Rhett gave me a cocky little grin, showing off two rows of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth, surrounded by perfectly plump lips and a chiseled jawline.
He ran a hand through his curly brown hair and gave me a little shrug, a move that seemed to be the only casual one he’d made so far.
“Enjoy your bagel.”
“Thanks,” I replied, completely thrown off.
I turned around, ready to get my bagel and to put some distance between Rhett and me before my entire body exploded and ran right into the clear glass doors.
For the first time in years, the door was closed. It was never closed. I would just like to get that on record.
“Who closed the door?” I screeched, yanking it open.
But not before I heard Rhett’s soft chuckle behind me. It was a charming, almost musical sound, coming deep from his belly—a strange laugh for a guy to have.
That laugh stuck with me even as I marched into my shop and ordered my egg and cheese sandwich on an onion bagel.
It appeared I found Rhett Thompson attractive in a way I hadn’t found a man attractive since I was a hormone-driven teenager.
1
Rhett
“I am agreeing with you, Philip,” Leslie sighed, rubbing her forehead in annoyance. “I’m also saying that I don’t believe that’s necessarily the best investment to make for the company right now, especially when we have such a large bill looming over our heads.”