Nolan Price stared at the coins as if they offended him personally.
“We don’t sell to people like you,” he said.
I blinked, genuinely confused, my brain too foggy to process what he meant. “The sign—”
“I reserve the right to refuse service,” he interrupted, his tone sharpening, eyes flicking toward the window as if I might contaminate the view. “You track mud inside, you linger, you make my real customers uncomfortable.”
“There’s no one else here,” I said, gesturing helplessly around the empty shop, my cheeks burning as tears threatened, humiliating and unwanted.
“I’m here,” he snapped, slamming his palm onto the counter, “and I don’t want you in my business.”
“It’s just bread,” I whispered, the words breaking despite my efforts. “You’re going to throw it away.”
“I’d rather toss it than give it to someone who scares off paying customers,” he said, his face flushing, and then, with a deliberate cruelty that felt rehearsed, he grabbed a napkin, picked up my quarters as if they were contaminated, and flicked them off the counter.
They hit the tile floor and rolled, one spinning toward the door, the other stopping near my boot.
“Get out,” he said, voice low and threatening. “Before I call the police and tell them you’re harassing me. You don’t want that kind of attention.”
