Falling In Love With You Again

9

He stopped dead, his gaze dropping to the top of my brown paper bag. Through the wax paper lining, the green crushed pistachios and glossy chocolate glaze of a freshly baked Dubai chocolate croissant peeked out.

His face drained of color. His blue eyes snapped up to mine, wide with genuine, spike-of-adrenaline panic.

"You can't eat that," he gasped out, his hands twitching at his sides. "You're allergic to that nutty green croissant. It's... it's a terrible idea if you eat that!"

I stared at him, my mouth agape, my eyebrows pulling into a deep, incredulous furrow.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I snapped, taking a defensive step back.

"I'm not allergic to nuts! I literally eat peanut butter on toast every single morning! What is wrong with you? You are creeping me out so badly right now! If the media finds out you're harassing random women on the street and telling them what pastries they can eat, trust me, you're going to have a catastrophic PR nightmare—"

"I don't care about the media! Just give me the croissant!" James yelled, completely abandoning his cool, celebrity composure.

Before I could react, his hand lunged straight for my brown paper bag.

"Hey! Get your hands off my food!" I shrieked, twisting my body away and yanking the bag to my chest.

"No, Cheska—or whatever you call yourself—hand it over!" he insisted, diving in like a frantic man trying to disarm a live grenade.

"Are you insane?! Let go!"

It became an absolute, chaotic wrestling match right on the public sidewalk. I ducked, dodged, and swatted at his hands, but he was taller, faster, and aggressively determined.

He grabbed the top of the bag, I yanked the bottom, and with one loud, merciless RIIIIP, the paper tore completely in half.

My warm sourdough loaf, two blueberry muffins, and my glorious, chocolate-drizzled pistachio croissant tumbled through the air and slammed face-down into the filthy, dusty pavement.

Silence fell over the sidewalk.

I stood paralyzed, staring down at the sticky, ruined wreckage at my feet. The chocolate was smeared across the concrete, covered in dirt and dried autumn leaves.

"WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL DID YOU JUST DO?!" I roared, my voice echoing off the brick storefronts.

Driven by pure, unadulterated fury, I wound up my arm and slapped him right upside the back of his head.

"Ow—!" James yelped, stumbling forward.

"YOU i***t CREEP!" I yelled, wailing like an utterly betrayed child as I smacked him repeatedly on the shoulder with my rolled-up, empty bakery receipt. "MY CROISSANT! My delicious, eight-dollar, special-edition croissant is in the DIRT!"

By now, half the sidewalk had stopped to watch. A group of teenagers pulled out their phones, a dog barked at the fallen muffin, and an elderly woman glared at James with deep disgust.

"I am so sorry!" James stammered, holding his hands up to shield his head, his cap knocked askew as he flushed beet-red under his mask. "I'll buy you the whole bakery! I'll buy you fifty croissants! Just... Please stop hitting me!"

"I don't want fifty bakery croissants from a lunatic stalker!" I scoffed dramatically, wiping a stray tear of sheer frustration from my eye and pointing a sharp finger at his chest.

"I wanted that one! You are an absolute menace to society! Stay the hell away from me and my baked goods!"

Thankfully, the dark cap and surgical mask kept his famous face completely hidden from the onlookers.

The group of teenagers who had pulled out their phones were already going live on f*******:, snickering and captioning their stream with titles about a crazy stalker who hates pistachio croissants.

Meanwhile, I hadn't stopped my assault. I swung my heavy purse like a sledgehammer, repeatedly whacking him across his back while peppering him with a string of colorful curses that would make a sailor blush.

"You lunatic! You absolute psycho! May your hair fall out and your movies flop!" I yelled, bringing the strap down hard on his shoulder.

Just as I was winding up for another hit, a massive, gleaming white luxury RV screeched to a halt along the curb next to us. The side door hissed open, and a tall, sharp-looking man, who looked like a severely stressed talent agent, sprinted out.

Without missing a beat, the man grabbed James by his jacket sleeve and shoved his tall, sheepish frame toward the open door. Before hopping in after him, the agent frantically pulled a crisp hundred-dollar bill from his coat pocket, shoved it into my hands, and bowed hastily.

"I am so, so deeply sorry for his behavior, ma'am! It won't happen again!" the agent gasped out before slamming the RV door shut.

As the massive vehicle hit the gas and sped down the avenue, I stomped toward the curb and threw a very energetic middle finger at its tinted rear windows.

"WHAT A FREAK!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "I'M CALLING THE POLICE THE NEXT TIME I SEE YOUR CREEPY ASS!"

Fuming, my chest heaving with pure adrenaline, I looked down at the hundred-dollar bill crumpled in my fist, then at the squished sourdough and dirty croissant baking in the morning sun. I took a deep, steadying breath, trying to tame the wild rage surging through me.

I whipped around to face the giggling teenagers who were still hovering with their camera phones. "The show is over! Stop filming and go to school!" I barked.

Scared off by my terrifying clinic-secretary wrath, the kids scattered instantly like pigeons.

Satisfied, I smoothed down my blouse, adjusted my purse, and marched right back through the glass doors of the bakery. I slapped the hundred-dollar bill onto the counter in front of the startled sales lady with a triumphant grin.

"Give me three more of those pistachio chocolate croissants," I announced proudly, "and fill the rest of the bag with everything else my tummy desires."