Pinch Me: A Romantic St. Patrick’s Day Story Read online

Pinch Me:

  A Romantic St. Patrick’s Day Story

  By Rusty Fischer, author of A Town Called Snowflake

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  Pinch Me

  Rusty Fischer

  Copyright 2014 by Rusty Fischer

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  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, places and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

  Cover credit: © domnitchnastia – Fotolia.com

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  Author’s Note:

  The following is a FREE short story edited by the author himself. If you see any glaring mistakes, I apologize and hope you don’t take it out on my poor characters, who had nothing to do with their author’s bad grammar! Happy reading… and happy holidays!

  Enjoy!

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  Pinch Me:

  A Romantic St. Patrick’s Day Story

  He comes in late one night.

  It’s early March. Cool, but not cold. I watch him walking all the way up the street. It takes awhile, but I don’t mind. I’m not actively on the prowl, mind you, but it beats staring at the lottery tickets under the glass countertop as I work my way through graduate school, one night at a time, six nights a week.

  He’s tall and lanky, wearing track pants with white stripes down the sides and a tan pullover that doesn’t match, like maybe he just threw on any old thing on his way out the door.

  Folks do that, running out to the corner store this late at night. You’d be amazed by what I see in here: rollers in their hair, slippers on their feet, house dresses, boxer shorts, pajama bottoms, sleep hair, cow licks, pink eye, you name it.

  It’s like the local convenience store is a fashion free zone and anyone behind the counter on the night shift is as invisible as they are.

  But this one’s different. For one, it’s nearly midnight and he’s not drunk, not stoned and not crazy. A little frantic, maybe, but not crazy.

  “Do you sell cat food?” he asks the minute he’s in the door, the little bell above his head still ringing as his soft brown eyes scan my face for answers.

  Why do they always ask? There are, like, three aisles in the whole Minute Mart store. It takes maybe 2.5 minutes, tops, to walk through all of them. That’s with a cane, a limp and a blindfold over your face.

  Without those? Maybe 30-seconds, all in.

  “Aisle 3,” I tell him, liking the way his soft brown eyes follow my two-finger point toward the back of the store. “Right next to the motor oil.”

  He pauses, turns back, smirking over his broad shoulders. “Really?”

  I smile, leaning against the Frostee Freeze machine. It’s surprisingly warm.

  “I just put ‘em where corporate tells me,” I sigh, imagining how sexy I must look in my orange and yellow striped Minute Mart apron, my auburn hair pulled up in a “no one’s going to see me at work anyway” ponytail.

  He nods and races off, returning with a single can of Lucky Cat cat food.

  “How much?” he asks the minute he puts it on the counter. I resist the urge to roll my eyes – there’s a price tag right on top, dusty, sure, but still quite visible to the naked eye – and ring it up.

  “Sixty-seven cents,” I tell him and he hands me a dollar. I slide it in the register and hand him the change back. He takes it and, for the first time, looks up at me. I mean, really looks up at me.

  “It’s not for my cat,” he gushes, like I care.

  “Gotcha,” I say with a little wink-wink, nudge-nudge action, like we’re old friends or something. “Scoring some brownie points with the girlfriend’s cat, huh?”

  He’s pretty hunky, up close. Athletic, lean, soft face, a little stubble on his strong chin and hollow cheeks, pug nose and those eyes.

  Holy schnikeys, those eyes.

  “No,” he says, a little defensively, like maybe I should know better. “I… it’s a stray, just walked up onto my back porch tonight looking hungry.”

  I wince. “Ooooh, just now?” I ask.

  He makes a crumple face. “Yeah, why?”

  “You’re gonna feed it?” I ask, in a way that’s more warning than question.

  He holds the can in his hand up, as if seeing it for the first time. Asks again, a little slower now, “Yeah, why?”

  I suck a little air back in through my teeth. “Well, do you think that’s such a good idea?”

  His shoulders sag a little, like no, maybe he doesn’t. “I did when I started walking up here, but, now… I don’t know. I don’t want it to go hungry.”

  “Are you sure it’s a stray?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve seen it around the complex before,” he muses. “No collar, kinda shaggy and tonight she just walked up, looking hungry. If you saw her, you’d know what I mean.”

  I nod. “Hard to turn a cat away,” I agree. “But, you know, you feed it once…”

  He looks up from the dusty can of cat food and nods. “That’s why I’m only getting the one,” he says, nodding, but mostly to himself. As if that’s who he has to convince. “I’m just feeding her tonight so I can sleep, you know? Not worry about her little stomach growling.”

  I snort. He’s so earnest, I almost want to give him his money back. “I hear you,” I say, nodding. “You’re probably doing the right thing.”

  “You think?” he asks, all uncertain again. I nod and he sighs. “Okay, then, well… thanks…” He looks at my nametag, clipped all crooked-like to my work apron, “Grace. You’ve been a big help.”

  I chuckle. “I have?”

  “Yeah,” he says, again, sounding wounded. “Sure you have.”

  Then he walks out, going a little quicker now, back home to feed his stray cat. I chuckle and think nothing of it. I mean, okay, sure… I think a little of it, because like I said… dude’s cute, I’m bored. But even that quickly fades until he comes in the next night.

  Same track pants, different pullover, powder blue, this time, with a gray ski cap pulled down over his soft brown curls. I’m starting to think it’s some kind of uniform, like me with my pajama bottoms and baby doll T-shirts after work, curled up on my couch binge watching Zombie Academy on HitFlix.

  He doesn’t ask this time, just goes back to Aisle 3 and comes back up to the register, looking a little sheepish as he slides the can of Lucky Cat onto the countertop.

  “One more time, huh?” I ask.

  He nods, looking down at his wallet. “She came back,” he says, a little sheepishly, like it’s his fault.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” I sigh, ringing it up.

  He has no cash tonight, so he starts to swipe his card in the little machine on his side of the counter. On a dare I say, “Uh, we’ve been having trouble with the machine this week. I better swipe it.”

  He shrugs and hands it over. I quick read his name on the front – “Toby Tweed” – swipe it, and hand it back with his receipt.

  He takes it and slips it in his pocket, taking the can off the counter. But he doesn’t leave right away. Instead he kind of flicks the sparkly green shamrock ears of the headband on the St. Patrick’s Day display by the register and says, “You’re running out.”

  “Of those?” I snort, watching the little shamrock ear wobble from where he’s touched it with his long, pale finger. “Good riddance, I say.”

  “Not a big fan of St. Patrick’s Day?” he asks, brown eyes meeting mine.

  I shrug. “Not really. You?”

  His turn to shrug. “Not really. I usually buy a six-pack of Irish beer, just to be safe, but… that’s about as far as I go, celebration wise.�
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  “We’ve got that,” I say, nodding toward the beer cooler to his left.

  He smirks. “You get commission if I buy it here?” he jokes.

  I chuckle. “Naw, it’s just that they’re going fast, you know, if you want to get it before the big day.”

  He sighs, seeming uninterested. “Can’t believe it’s almost here. Seems like it was just Valentine’s Day a week or two ago.”

  I chuckle. “That’s because, well… it kind of was.”

  He looks up with a half smile. “Oh yeah.”

  “Don’t forget to wear your green,” I remind him as I sense his attention span starting to wander.

  He looks back at me with his crumple-frown face, guy speak for, “Say what?”

  “For St. Patrick’s Day,” I remind him.

  He smiles, brightly. “What, you gonna pinch me or something if I don’t?”

  Did Toby Tweed just… flirt… with me?

  “Maybe,” I purr, a little flustered because… I was not expecting that.

  Then we stand there for a minute, both blushing, nothing left to say. Or too much to say, and not enough courage to say it.

  Finally he drifts away from the counter, cat food in hand.