MARCO MARTINS The slim blonde at the counter eyed the bottle in my hand. “Is that all?” She asked, judging me with her eyes. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Judging a man for alcohol?” I questioned her. I held the bottle and checked the price tag. Sixty nine dollars and ninety nine cents. “I’m not,” she said. “But its ten o’clock in the morning,” she said like it was nothing. The blonde haired took my bottle and the computer beeped. Bright eyed, she turned to me. “Sixty nine dollars and ninety nine cents.” I pulled out a hundred dollar note and paid. From the corner of my eyes, someone got my attention. She looked slightly different but I couldn't make a mistake of who she was. It was Cleo Garcia. Her hair was parked in a bun. Her sharp chin leaned forward. “Keep the change,” I said and walked out of the line. “I need to put that in a ba—” The blonde called out to me. She stopped and sighed, accepting that I didn't need a bag. I heard her acknowledge the n
Last Updated : 2025-01-18 Read more