- Oaklyn -

Mediterranean food is a must for Monday evenings.

It's a ritual that Sailor and I have done for a couple of months now and we are loving the experience.

The local restaurant the Mediterranean Breeze tops the list. The warm lighting and rustic wooden furniture made one feel as if they were eating by the seaside. The interior of the restaurant was adorned in lively imprints of blue and white that symbolized the serene beauty of the Greek islands. This place is so decked out in so much blue and white that you swear you were in a Santorini postcard.

Amidst the ebb and flow of numerous customers, I patiently awaited past the witching hour of eight o'clock in the city that never sleeps, and I had a sneaking suspicion our food might be taking a scenic route to our table.

I was so, so hungry. The only fulfilling thing I'd eaten all the was the polluted Miami air. You would think I'm creating a new diet of air and despair. A real feast for the lungs. Though, not your stomach.

The local news played softly in the background. It caught my interest. Among the stories, one topic stood out—the incident that had unfolded in March of last year. Several college students, all female, had vanished from a nightclub not far from their university campus. Eight months later, there was a so-called 'sighting' suggesting that one of the missing victims had been seen in a small town in Georgia.

Despite months of searching, the FBI had struggled to find any substantial evidence from that fateful night. Clues were scarce and hard to come by. Scattered and elusive. Proof of phantoms that refused to be captured. When the official version was unveiled, I instinctively called bullshit on the matter. Something about that case didn't sit right with me. It never had.

I relish the sizzle and scandal that the local news serves up hot. And every now and then I would like to gossip to family and friends, but alas, that's often a mission more impossible.

Sailor, for one, gets the heebie-jeebies at the slightest mention of murder mysteries. My brother, meanwhile, is too immature and childish to even sit in front of the TV without texting or curating his social media empire. And my parents are so swamped, that they wouldn't notice if the TV was playing the static of a disconnected channel. So, I've drawn my climax, that I might just be better off sharing my thoughts with unsuspecting strangers.

Just as local investigators were preparing to discuss new claims and review evidence footage, an employee, whose accent was as rich and bold as a New York cheesecake, shattered the apprehension. He called out names in an organized fashion.

"Up next, we've got orders for Sullivan, Patel, Young, and Reynolds!"

There's a short delay between the order names before the employee resumes.

"Miller!"

Startled by the sudden call of my name, I spun around at the sight of a young man, barely into his twenties, holding my takeout food. Vexation colored his features. Just peachy. This was the cherry on top of a marathon Monday (cue the eye roll).

I scooped up my satchel from where it lay slumped on the wooden bench. My feet propelled me towards the front counter where I went to retrieve my dinner. My hunger was so vicious. I could practically feel my stomach trying to make a break for it through my spine.

The employee's face snarled with pure annoyance. "You Miller?" he barked.

With a nod, I corroborated, "Yes, that's me."

He handed over the paper bag. It's weight is surprisingly feather-light. A bad sign, no doubt, but I still decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. I couldn't afford to cause a huge scene in this mob of customers.

Balancing my purse on my shoulder, I mustered an awkward smile. "Thank you," I offered politely.

In return, I received nothing but an odd, vacant stare before he retreated to his post.

Rude.

Was good customer service this much of a rarity these days?

Nonetheless, I brushed off the minor incident and beelined my way to the exit, towards my parked car. It was packed as usual. Even worse today. The ghostly emptiness of my food left me uneasy. Not going to lie. Each time Sailor and I had ordered from the Mediterranean Breeze, it had been a buffet. A heaping one with dishes that could efficiently match the weight of a newborn baby. Sure, Sailor and I were on the petite side, albeit, our appetites were hearty.

The bag made a soft thud against the hood of my car as I began the tedious task of prying open the stapled seal. My nails became makeshift tools and worked on chipping away. Constantly, I picked at the tiny piece of thin metal until finally, the bag surrendered. My nostrils immediately coasted with redolence.

A smile crept onto my face as I peeked inside and was met by the sight of two plastic containers. Their clear, sealed tops promise a culinary delight. I cannot wait to stuff my cheeks with this excessively big-ass gyro.

I squinted. Then I took a look closer.

You've got to be kidding me. This had to be a joke.

Inside, one plate held two perfectly grilled chicken breasts accompanied by a layout of roasted vegetables, including roasted red bell peppers and zucchini. The other container housed an oversized Greek salad, disappointingly bare of any dressing.

Was this meal designed for sparrows?

There was barely little to enough food here to carry me through the night without my stomach growling and my cravings begging for any morsel I could devour. No, this simply wouldn't do.

Justice is needed for my tastebuds.

Without a second thought, I methodically shoved the containers back into the brown bag, sealing it once again with the familiar fold and shape. I had tried my best to avoid causing a scene, but evidently, someone had botched the order, and now I had to return to the restaurant to get what I had paid for.

Tsunami Oaklyn is now at your service.

Back inside the restaurant, I positioned myself near the pickup section and patiently awaited an employee's assistance. As expected, the young man reappeared at the front counter, his foul attitude dripped when I placed the bag of food before him.

"May I help you?" he questioned impatiently.

"I was just here less than five minutes ago. I've checked my order, and it's not what I asked for."

"Do you have the receipt?"

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, confusion washed over me. "Receipt? I didn't receive a receipt."

"Well, unfortunately, you cannot return the food without a receipt," the worker stated matter-of-factly.

My jaw dropped open in shock. "Are you kidding me? I was only gone for a second."

The surrounding customers grew silent. My cheeks must have been a bright shade of strawberry red. A blatant sign of mortification.

This was so humiliating.

"That's the policy, ma'am." A devious smile formed his lips. He found this situation far too amusing.

The worker continued his explanation, "But with a receipt, we'll gladly fix your order."

I let out a sigh and groaned aloud. "What part of 'I don't have it' is so hard to understand? I—"

"I have the receipt."

The voice was a lifeline. So loud and clear. Both the worker and I turned to find the source. A man with lenient expresso-brown eyes and dark hair that brushed over his eyebrow. He wore a fitted, light blue long-sleeve dress shirt, complemented by solid black pants and stylish ink oxford shoes. His olive skin tone perfectly matched his professional vibe. My eyes scanned him from head to toe. This man was the exact guy I had swiped right on Sailor's dating app profile.

Wow.

What a small world.

I eyed him thirstily for a second time. I esteemed his tall frame. was much taller than I had calculated through the photos. Clearly, I probably should brush up on my math skills. What features jumped out at me was his facial dimples—they were deep, perfectly carved on either cheek almost like footprints in the white sand.

Goodness.

No . . . this is a ridiculously small world. Tiny, in fact.

A soft "Huh?" escaped my lips, barely audible. This man was undeniably beautiful. I could sense the awe of the male employee behind me as he too stood frozen, momentarily numb, like me.

Damn, I guess we were both starstruck. A valid reaction, I do say so myself.

His name evaded my memory. No matter how desperately I tried to recall it. He stretched out the stained bag and my eyes followed his strong hands as they regained a crumpled receipt from the bottom.

"Are you Oaklyn Miller?" his bottomless voice flooded into my ear.

I nodded eagerly, moving aside from the pickup section.

"Yes."

The man extended his hand towards me. The receipt was no longer a focus. He held the corrected order with a glint in his hickory eyes. His flirtatious energy was palpable, and it sent a thrill—a shiver—down the latter of my back.

"Here you go. Just a quick switcheroo," he offered, giving me the bag. "Plus, I made sure to add a little extra dressing to compensate for those dry greens. Wouldn't want you to miss out on the full Mediterranean experience."

Surprisingly, it seemed that he had been lurking nearby when the cashier informed me about the extra dollar added to my favorite side dressing. I refused to pay the additional cost. It was a showcase of my particularity when it came to dressings, but more importantly, my stubbornness to even spend a single extra dollar. How he managed to slip an extra cup into my bag without my notice remained a mystery. I find it kinda hot.

I laughed, enjoying his small talk and the way he effortlessly injected humor into the situation.

"Oh, so you noticed my disappointment earlier, huh? I guess you must have a keen eye for greasy Mediterranean food."

He smirked. The rim of his eyes studies my lips for a moment before meeting my eyes again. "Well, Oaklyn, I have to admit, I couldn't let someone as beautiful as you go hungry. I had to step in and make things right."

He thinks I'm beautiful?

I arched an eyebrow. "So what does that make you? My knight in a shining apron?"

He leaned in closer, his voice a low whisper that sent shivers down my spine.

"I can be your knight, your jester, or anything in between."

Oh shit.

With a casualty, his fingers found the receipt. The realization hit me like a ton of bricks, and I stood there, feeling like a clown in front of the bustling crowd, my oversight on full display. Yet, in the center of my internal chaos, he somehow managed to effortlessly melt away my embarrassment.

"Oh, and Oaklyn," he says.

"Just give me a call when you're ready for more than just extra dressing."

I'm going to lose my fucking mind.

How was I supposed to find his number? It was impossible, right? Maybe I could use Sailor's to put her stalking skills to the test. Hopefully, it wouldn't be as challenging. Because let me tell you, when information needs to be scoped out, that woman is worse than the FBI. She could probably even find the doctor who birthed him. That's how damn good she is.

My cheeks flush as I take the receipt from him. "I'll keep that in mind," I reply, playfully hinting at him.

He gifted me a sly wink, and turned to leave.

"Until next time."

I watched him walk away. The confident stride he possessed left an imprint on my mind. The possibilities seemed endless, and the flirtatious energy that had sparked between us was just the beginning.

Once inside my vehicle, I couldn't oppose the urge to double-check the food to guarantee everything was as it should be (it was a bad habit that I picked up at a young age). I then rummaged through the bag. My fingers nicked against a small, rectangular object that almost gave me a paper cut—because apparently, my dinner wants to pick a fight with me.

I pulled it out to find a business card from The Miami Bulletin resting on the top. Its bold logo caught my eye.

And there, below the news outlet's masthead, was the name of the handsome journalist, plastered in elegant gold lettering.

Boston Young.