Shattered

Carter (e)

Carter
3.
Usually I could ignore the stares. But I noticed every single eye, could hear my own racing heart as silence flooded the tiny coffee shop. They seemed to shrink away in my presence, and became fully aware of the couple who got up to leave—of course I noticed. I told myself that their leaving had nothing to do with me. Instead, I blamed it on the girl behind the counter.

She did something to my raging butterflies, made me want to run in the opposite direction yet draw in closer at the same time. The unfamiliar emotions that welled up inside me felt like a prison, but I couldn't make a fool out of myself. Not here, not now. Not ever. And especially not in front of a stupid girl.

The anxiety in my stomach rose to my throat as my heart leapt in my chest. This time, I knew it wasn't the frightened, knowing stares. I could feel her eyes studying me. Dark eyes that had me forcing my gaze over the menu above her head to keep the facade from slipping—I knew exactly what I wanted.

"A black coffee."

Dark ringlets of hair escaped from her ponytail, the same color to match her eyes. She smoothed a hand over the wisps and visibly straightened underneath my stare. I almost laughed, wanted to spit out how the brunette didn't need to worry about making herself look presentable in front of me—if only she knew it wasn't even worth it.

"Is that all, sir?"

They were innocent words, ones that I knew didn't deserve to be snapped at. I told myself I didn't care.

"Did I ask for anything else?" I thought snapping would make me feel better. It worked ninety-eight percent of the time, but all I could feel was guilt as the brunette's dark eyes went wide.

Behind her back, I scowled, watching her quick hands as they worked to create the steaming liquid in a matter of seconds. Eight seconds, to be exact.

Just before the brunette can turn away again, I caught sight of her name tag.

Hazel.

I nearly spoke the letters out loud, to test them on my tongue, but I stopped myself before I could get caught talking to myself. Instead, I snatched my coffee and left before I could even think about slipping up.

The sting of cold, November air met my lungs the moment I stepped outside, and I let out a stream of relieved air as I entered into the safety of my car. I had been so sure of coffee just an hour before, but now, it was the last thought on my mind.

That girl—Hazel—I couldn't remember if I'd seen her before. A face like that, I surely would have remembered. Was she new? I came into that coffee shop plenty of times, but not once had I seen the brunette.

She's just a stupid girl. Stupid. Nothing more.

She didn't strike me as a city girl, let alone a minimum-waged barista. But that didn't make sense. Where else could the girl fit in? Maybe she was a small town girl, the kind that takes care of the elderly at nursing homes and still lives at home with her parents. The cliché kind you see in hallmark movies—sweet and ambitious—that also don't exist.

Stupid girl.

I sighed. Since when did I ever get caught up thinking about a girl? I ran a tired hand over my face, along the raised outline of my scar. A reminder. One that was physically engrained on my face for the whole world to see. A message plain as day written in between.

Stay away.

And they did. I was the cold, ruthless owner of a multimillion dollar company with a reputation for "off the tracks, dangerous, the worst of the worst"—it was almost too easy to keep people at a distance. I liked it that way.