Sugar & Spite

The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up wearing my best customer-service smile. "Morning--oh. It's you." The smile drops right off my face. My somewhat reliable employee, Mina Seo, blows into the shop like a storm front. Her carefully styled hair spills over her shoulders in glossy brown waves, and excitement flashes in her dark eyes. "Eli!" She darts up and slaps both palms onto the glass counter I just got spotless, showing off the tiny cupcakes painted across her long nails. "Guess what!" "Let me guess... your grandma died--again--your evil landlord threw you out--again--and your car exploded, which is why you're an hour and a half late." Mina's reasons for not showing up on time always leaned theatrical and seemed to cycle on a schedule. She'd burned through the maximum believable number of dead grandmas months ago. "No, asshat! I showed up late because my neighbor got arrested after they found a gator in his bathtub, and I stayed to watch. Guess again!" "Mina, just spit it out." I'm not in the mood for this. My most hated holiday is almost here, and it's already ruining my mood. Like plenty of chronically single people, Valentine's Day hits a nerve for me, and not only for the obvious reasons. Unfortunately, I can't ignore it, act like I'm above it, or "celebrate" with a carton of ice cream, a mountain of self-disgust, plus a cheesy movie. I run a candy shop, and regardless of how much I despise February 14th with every bit of my heart and soul, it's good for business. My little store is already full of gaudy pink and red decorations--balloon hearts, pudgy cherubs, fake flowers, and, naturally, way too much candy. Mina handles the decorating, which is one reason I still keep her around, and I handle the candy. When I refuse to play her game of "guess the thing," Mina sulks. She's got the sort of face that can make a pout look cute--honestly, any expression works on her--which is another reason I keep her around: Mina can sell candy to straight guys like nobody else. Though, strictly speaking, it's my business, and she makes me money even if she misses half her shifts. It's not like I skip my share of the sales floor. People have told me I'm every bit as cute as she is, but my face sells to a slightly different crowd. With my slim build, porcelain skin, blue eyes, black hair, and annoyingly delicate features, I look like somebody who--as Mina puts it--shits glitter. It used to get under my skin. Now I'm just relieved it saves me the trouble of coming out. Right now, Mina studies me with wide eyes, her glossy lips drawn into a faint frown. "C'mon, Eli, guess," she says. My options are limited: I can snap, or I can give in. And because I really do like Mina underneath all that chaos, I cave. "Uh... you're engaged." "Wrong!" She totters around the counter in her dangerously high-heeled boots and grabs my arms. She's practically buzzing with energy, and I assume whatever the hell she's itching to tell me has to be big news. Then again, Mina gets this worked up when her favorite makeup goes on sale. "The space across the street finally has a tenant, and the new owner is SUPER HOT!" She practically screams the last two words loud enough to make my eardrums throb. "Mina! Lower your voice, for fuck's sake!" "Why?" she says with a frown, clearly let down that I'm not getting worked up over her news. "This place is empty." She swats my arm. "And watch your language in the store, Eli. What if kids were in here?" "If kids were in here, I wouldn't be fucking swearing!" "Yeah, well, if we had any customers, I wouldn't be shouting either, so that makes us even." "Fine." "Fine." She stares at me for a second, then grins again. Her mood swings are giving me whiplash. "Anyway--come look, come lookkk!!!" She sinks her nails into my arm and hauls me around the counter toward the door, where we end up with our faces smashed side by side, peering across the street like two total weirdos. "Look--there he is! Maybe he likes guys and he'll hit on you! Or you can search for him on Grindr, or whatever it is you do." "I don't--forget it." Across the street, I can just make out a man standing beyond a delivery van parked outside the space that's been empty for the last four months. A brand-new sign in the window reads Bluebird Bikes, which, judging from the logo, seems to be a bicycle shop. While I watch, the guy rounds past the van, and if he's the new owner, Mina is right. He has the muscle definition you'd expect from a young god, sun-browned skin, surfer-blond hair, and a jawline made for modeling. "See?" Mina smirks, reading my stare exactly right. "He's hot." Right then, the guy is looking down at his cellphone, probably talking to an equally hot girlfriend. I almost agree with her, and then he lifts his head and I get a look at his face. If a bus had blindsided me on the spot, I couldn't have been more shocked. It's not that he isn't hot. Beckett Sloan is every bit as blindingly handsome as he was back in high school. He's also why Valentine's Day is the day I hate most all year.