“You’re a fucking asshole!” I find myself yelling. There’s no telling if he heard me or not. It’s not like he’d care anyway.
Mere hours later, I’m standing in the waiting area for my Chinese takeout. My stomach is growling so incredibly loud, the couple standing next to me keeps pointedly glancing at me. As if I don’t realize that my stomach is, indeed, screaming that it’s hungry.
This is what happens when I skip meals during the day. I get hangry. And you can bet your sweet ass I’m hangry right now. This is the third Chinese restaurant I’ve been to, and each one has been packed solid, with people waiting for food. Did every family in Campbell suddenly realize they wanted chow mein and pork fried rice for dinner? Because that’s what it feels like.
Shifting on my feet, I glance down at the time on my phone and try to reel in my aggravation. It’s not their fault. I know someone has to cook the food back there, but tell that to my stomach and the pounding headache.
A loud bell from the counter suddenly dings followed by the woman’s voice. “Sweet and sour chicken, house chow mein, and the pork fried rice.”
My heart leaps, as I realize it’s my order. I start making my way through the crowd of people waiting on their order, and hell, I swear I hear church bells ringing, as I reach for the outstretched bag, that is, until I’m suddenly nudged out of the way.
A shocked gasp flies past my lips, and when I swing my gaze to the culprit, I see red. There, standing beside me, is Roman, reaching for my food.
No.
No.
Hell. No.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I demand, smacking his hand away from the bag. I hear someone’s sharp intake of breath behind me.
Oh, cool it, Karen.
Roman lazily quirks a brow. “Grabbing my food. What does it look like I’m doing?”
My lips thin into a grim line. “That is not your food. It’s mine.”
“Well, seeing as I’m about to pay for the exact food that I ordered, I’d say, it is, indeed, mine.” He’s smirks, turning back to the woman behind the counter who is eyeing me like I’m insane.
“Ha ha ha.” I glare at the side of his head. “Your wit is unparalleled and woefully unnecessary.”
Roman shoots me an assessing look. “You seem awfully upset over something as simple as takeout.”
That’s not all I’m upset about, dickhead, and you know it.
With my hip, I shove him out of my way and dig into my purse. I’ve been here with him before, and I’m not doing this again. This will not be a grocery store situation all over again, with him pulling a fast one on me. No way.
I thrust out two twenty-dollar bills and hand them to the lady who is still eyeing us both, clearly unsure whose meal is whose now. After a few seconds, she takes the money and rings me up. I smile, victoriously, when she hands me my receipt. When I have the takeout bag securely in my grip, I shoot Roman a mirth-filled smirk that says, “take that, asshole.” He just rolls his eyes, clearly not giving a shit.
Then, the bell sounds again, followed by, “Sweet and sour chicken, house chow mein, and the pork fried rice.”
I grit my back teeth together when I realize I, quite literally, almost fought my neighbor over food. Roman tosses his head back and laughs at my expense, as he pays and takes his food. Whirling on my heel, I head home to eat my food in peace.
So much for getting one over on him.
I spend most of Sunday calling different plumbers, hoping to get a quote, and even though some of them have cheaper prices than ten thousand, most of them are still way out of my price range.
Dealing with Roman is another story. After how spectacularly Saturday ended with him storming away, then the mess of our encounter at the Chinese restaurant, I figured I’d give him the rest of the night to cool off, before trying to talk to him. Or, maybe I was the one who needed to do the cooling off? I couldn’t tell anymore.
What I wasn’t banking on? Him being gone the entire day. By the time I woke up in the morning, there was no sign of him. It wasn’t until I’d finished with my laundry and was prepping my lunch for tomorrow at work that I saw him—or heard him, rather—pull into