Page 10 of The Romance Adventure

I double back when I hear rustling from a palm tree display covered in Christmas decorations. Must be leftover from the recent holidays. This place boasts a wild animal as its mascot, but if there is one in here, I’ll report them to the board of health. I peer in the direction of the palm, and the fronds ripple again.

My brow furrows and I consider that because I’m tired and famished, maybe I’m imagining things.

Just then, a kid’s boogie board shifts to the left and bumps into a man with a full load of coffee beverages on a tray, along with a bag of doughnuts, reminding me of the run-in at the Smoothery yesterday.

“The parents of that kid should tell them to be careful, otherwise, someone is going to be wearing their breakfast,” I mutter.

And now I’m talking to myself. I could also blame my destination for causing me to be off my game. Time to focus. I need hydration, nourishment, and caffeine.

I grab water from the cooler case and a breakfast taco from the pre-made section. Thankfully, it’s warm. When I fix my coffee, I sense someone in my proximity, likely waiting for me to pop the lid on the cup so they can take their turn. I shift to the side to make room when out of the corner of my eye, someone streaks by.

I imagine it’s a kid belonging to a family on their way to the amusement parks and no sooner did they get on the road was the kid whining and asking, Are we there yet?

Can’t say I’ll ever have that kid because I don’t plan to have a family. I’ve dated a bit, but can’t give a woman the time they require.

As for love, I don’t touch the stuff. Too messy. Too many demands. Too much risk. Too much like getting doused with a strawberry shortcake smoothie.

I’ll drop millions on a high-return investment, but I’m not going to bank any of my funds on romance. I’m committed to my job. Not relationships. I’m building something big and I can’t get distracted.

Not by kids goofing around in a store at six am, not by my growling stomach while I wait in line to pay, and not by the woman with the long brown hair streaked blonde by the sun.

I do a double-take.

Standing at the neighboring checkout counter, Strawberry Shortcake squishes up her face and gives me a tight little wave.

She wears the same short coveralls as yesterday with a tank top underneath. The faintest odor of strawberries wafts my way. Paint covers her sneakers and a fleck is still on her cheek.

Nope. Not going to acknowledge her. I’ll pretend I’ve never seen her in my life and continue on my merry way.

I pay for my items and then march outside, blinders on. With my hand on the bar of the door, I’m almost out of here when another, smaller hand overlaps mine. I don’t dare look. But once again, I experience an internal pause. My breath presses deeply into my lungs and expands throughout my body, making me feel light, free.

It’s busy and loud in here, so I thrust the door open without looking back because, regrettably, I have a place to be and can’t afford to waste time.

Fully intending to bolt out of this parking lot, I remember the car needs gas. After guzzling some water and taking a much-needed sip of coffee, I maneuver to the line of cars waiting. There are three pumps per lane and an old truck idles in front of me. I hate waiting, but this gives me a chance to chow down on the taco. I wish I’d grabbed two, but I’m not going back in there in case Strawberry Shortcake also decided she needs seconds—or got it in her mind to soak someone in smoothie juice.

My mind races with every objection, every reason I should turn back, but I’m locked in this line with cars in front of me, behind the BMW, and waiting for the pumps parallel to mine. There’s a narrow passage, but a person with a tow-behind camper blocks the exit.

Yesterday started with a bang, in a good way, with me and the guys blasting out of the plane and toward the earth, playing football, and then catching up like old times over burgers for lunch.

Now, I’m heading to the place I dread most, and hoping that Strawberry Shortcake isn’t going to materialize and spray gasoline all over my clean shirt—because, unlike her, I changed my clothing since yesterday.

As I creep ahead in line, I recall the interaction at the boutique in Charleston. I wonder if perhaps she hit hard times and is living in her vehicle, driving from town to town, and hoping for handouts.

No, that can’t be true because she seemed to know the women at the Smoothery.

But she didn’t pay for the smoothie or muffin.

However, she was wearing gold earrings.

But her clothing was covered in paint.

Maybe she’s a painter or that’s her style.

But she was wearing those same garments again.

However, she bought a breakfast taco, so she can’t be out of cash.

Why am I analyzing this?