Stuck with You (The STEMinist Novellas #2) by Ali Hazelwood

            I doubt I’ll manage to finally push past five feet at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, but who’s to say. “Just to recap,” I say, in one last pleading, whiny attempt at salvaging my professional future, “you’re not making more croissants today?”

            Faye’s eyes narrow. “Honey, you might like my croissants a little too much—”

            “Here.”

            The voice—not Faye’s—is deep and pitched low, coming from somewhere above my head. But I barely pay it any attention because I’m too busy staring at the croissant that has miraculously appeared in front of my eyes. It’s still whole, set on top of a napkin, a few stray flakes of dough slowly crumbling off its top. I’ve had Faye’s croissants before, and I know that what they lack in taste they make up for in size. They are very, very large.

            Even when delivered by a very, very large hand.

            I blink at it for several seconds, wondering if this is a superstition-induced mirage. Then I slowly turn around to look at the man who deposited the croissant on the counter.

            He’s already gone. Half out of the door, and all I get is a brief impression of broad shoulders and light hair.

            “What—?” I blink at Faye, pointing at the man. “What . . . ?”

            “I guess Erik decided you should have the last croissant.”

            “Why?”

            She shrugs. “Wouldn’t look a gift croissant in the mouth if I were you.”

            Gift croissant.

            I shrug myself out of my stupor, toss a five-dollar bill in the tip jar, and run out of the café. “Hey!” I call. The man is about twenty steps ahead of me. Well, twenty steps with my tiny legs. Might be less than five with his own. “Hey, could you wait a . . . ?”

            He doesn’t stop, so I clutch my croissant and hurry after him. I channel my best Former Soccer Scholarship Kid self and dodge a lady walking her dog, then her dog, then two teenagers making out on the sidewalk. I catch up right around the corner, when I come to a halt in front of him.

            “Hey.” I grin up. And up and up and up. He’s taller than I calculated. And I’m more winded than I’d like. I need to work out more. “Thank you so much! You really didn’t have to . . .” I fall silent. For no real reason other than because of how striking he looks. He is just so . . .

            Scandinavian, maybe. Viking-like. Norse. Like his ancestors frolicked below the aurora borealis on their way to funding Ikea. He is as big as a yeti, with clear blue eyes and short, pale-blond hair, and I would bet my gift croissant that his name contains one of those cool Nordic letters. The a and the e smushed together; that weird o slashed through the middle; the big b that’s actually two s’s stacked on top of each other. Something that requires a lot of HTML knowledge to be typed.

            It takes me by surprise, that’s all, and for a moment I’m not sure what to say and just stare up. The strong jaw. The deep-set eyes. The way the angular parts of his face come together into something very, very handsome.

            Then I realize that he’s staring back, and instantly become self-conscious. I know exactly what he’s seeing: the blue button-down I tucked into my chinos; the bangs I really need to trim; the brown, shoulder-length hair I also need to trim; and then, of course, the croissant.

            The croissant! “Thank you so much!” I smile. “I didn’t mean to steal your food.”

            No reply.

            “I could pay you back.”

            Still no reply. Just that North Germanic, severe stare.

            “Or I could buy you a muffin. Or a bagel. I really didn’t mean to interfere with your breakfast.”

            Number of replies: zero. Intensity of stare: many millions. Does he even understand what I’m— Oh.

            Ooooh.

            “Thank. You,” I say, very, very slowly, like when my mom’s side of the family, the one that never immigrated to the U.S., attempts to speak Italian with me. “For”—I lift the croissant in front of my face—“this. Thank”—I point at the Viking—“you. You are very”—I tilt my head and scrunch my nose happily—“nice.” He stares even longer, pensive. I don’t think he got it. “You don’t understand, do you?” I murmur to myself dejectedly. “Well, thank you again. You really did me a solid there.” I lift the croissant one last time, like I’m toasting him. Then I turn around and begin to walk away.