Italian With A Side of Pasta (The Italians #2)
Something Italian (The Italians #3)
Of All The Ways He Loves Me
The Life And Times Of Lucas McGilley
New ~ Jersey
Love After Snowfall
Today's excerpt comes from a future YA titled, "A Kiss In September." The idea behind this story began when the first sentence formed in my mind. My daughter and I were on the way to my office and had stopped at the grocery store. A pot pie in her hands and no clerk in sight, she said, "This is going in a book. Isn't it?" I've adapted it to fit a storyline, of course, and will be excited to release this next year.
Here's the opening sequence. September Blessing finds herself in the grocery store in a big mess.
Standing uncertain in the center of the aisle, a frozen pot pie in my hands, I flipped my head back and forth, the action leaving a definite kink in my neck.
Now what? I could go to the help desk to check out, but the dumpy old man standing first in line was buying lottery tickets. Who knew how long that’d take?
On the other hand, the express lane was empty. But where the hang was the clerk?
“Can I help you, miss?”
A friendly, male voice jabbed loud in my ear, and I leaped in place, dropping the pie. Staring downward at it, I contemplated if it were broken or not. Do frozen pies break?
“Let me get that for you.” An arm appeared in my view and a hand with a recognizable class ring.
“You went to Ferris High?” I asked, focusing on the stone. Red stone. Ruby. That meant he was born in July.
“Graduated last year.”
Last year, so a year ahead of me.
He lifted the pie from the floor and handed it to me. The box was sweating now. I either checked out soon, or it would be mush.
I raised my gaze at last and halted in place as stiff as the pie. Dark hair, brown eyes, and a smile brighter than white laundry on a sunny day. Grocery boy was a handsome sight.
“And you?” he asked.
With his voice, I snapped out of my daze. “This year. But it’s my first year there. We moved here last summer from the opposite coast. Dad’s job.”
“Ah. Well, your food is probably thawing.” He motioned toward the box.
“Right. Yeah, and thanks … I’ll just …” Scooting in behind the man at the help desk, I faced forward.
The clerk, a petite blonde wearing grocery store green, slid the man’s tickets across the counter, and he grasped them with aged hands.
“Thank you, Mr. Cassetta,” she said. “Best wishes this week.”
He nodded, shoving them in his shirt pocket, and shuffled away, his thick-soled shoes squeaking on the title. “’Preciate it, dear,” he called over his back.
I pushed the pie toward the scanner along with a five dollar bill, and the clerk slid it across.
“That’ll be two fifteen,” she said. Her drawer popped open, and she counted the change, dropping it in my hand. “Have a nice day.”
Hooking the bag over my arm, I headed out, stepping through the electronic doors into figure-slimming late summer heat. “Now, I’m melting like the pie,” I mumbled.
I made a quick walk of the distance to my car, hopping over the well-compressed mulch of a half-hearted flowerbed and reaching for my purse. My fingers grazed air and once again, I paused. This couldn’t be happening.
“I only wanted a pie.”
A pie which was getting softer and softer by the minute, and seemed now destined for the trash can, because staring up at me from the driver’s seat were my keys. Keys, cell phone, and purse. How had I managed that?
Suzanne D. Williams
Suzanne Williams Photography
Suzanne Williams is a native Floridian, wife, and mother, with a penchant for spelling anything, who happens to love photography.