It’s my eyes I hate. They’re something between algae green and shit brown. Some call them hazel. I call them boring and have debated getting colored contacts. But, alas, I can’t afford such luxury. I’m a twenty-two-year-old sophomore in college struggling to make it to a twenty-three-year-old junior in college. After high school, I took a few years to backpack across the country to find myself. I didn’t and still have no effing clue what I’m doing with my life. My major proves that. What the hell am I going to do with a major in general studies? It’s like an advertisement for having no idea what I want to be when I grow up.
But I digress…
Back to why I’m always comparing myself to my best friend. I shouldn’t bitch. I can hold my own. Well, except against the likes of Bombshell Britt. If Marilyn Monroe had been a size four, with a tight ass and ridiculously perky boobs, they could have been twins in the same time period. Am I jealous? Hells yeah. I want to look like the flight attendant from every man’s wet dream. I want to catch the bartender’s attention without having to raise my arm like I’m about to call out, “Bingo!”
But it is what it is. Am I model material? Maybe to someone with Photoshop. Or bad eyes. I’m not skinny enough and refuse to starve myself to fit into smaller size. My height is average at best. Maybe someone got the calculations wrong on that whole Body Mass Index scale. Regardless, I’m considered above average weight for my average height of 5’4”. I think the dickheads who came up with the BMI scale were all shallow assholes with tiny dicks. Why isn’t there some sort of scale to measure a man’s penis?
I rest my case.
Moving on. I get a lot of questions about my hair. Yes, it’s my real color. No, it didn’t come from a bottle. And no, I’m not going to tell you if the carpet matches the drapes. It’s amazing how many people ask—both guys and girls.
Every so often, someone comments on my freckles and whether I’ve stolen anyone’s soul. I laugh each and every time as if I’ve never heard that before while deep down I’m debating which hand to use to throat-punch them. Redheads hate their freckles. Ask any redhead. So, to point out something I hate requires me to automatically hate the pointer-outer. It’s the rule.
“Oh,” Britt purrs as she locks her gaze on the beautiful bartender—her next heartbreak. “He’s cute. Don’t you think he’s cute?”
I paste on a smile and force my disappointment down deep. Oh, to have the power to snag a guy with nothing more than my charm. Since my allure is masked by sarcastic wit and optimistic pessimism—or would that be pessimistic optimism? Either way, it’s a real thing—I won’t be snagging any guy tonight. “He’s definitely bangable.”
“I bet he can do things with those lips that will have me speaking in tongues.” Britt sucks her lower lip between her teeth and bites down, her smoldering gaze never leaving the bartender. He hones in on her and the two mentally fuck each other right there.
“Seriously, Britt? Aren’t we here to mourn the passing of the relationship known as Pritt? Or Braul? How exactly do you blend Brittney and Paul?”
“It was Peter,” she corrects.
I stop playing with the stem of the cherry from my drink. That didn’t sound right. “This wasn’t Paul?”
“No.”
“Wasn’t there a Paul in there somewhere?”
“Like four breakups ago, Emma. Try to keep up.”
“Sorry,” I offer as my attention wanders. Britt is back to attacking the bartender with her hungry eyes, so I scan the crowded bar for someone, anyone, to have my own mental sex with. Not seeing a single prospect worthy of a second glance, I sigh and drop my gaze to my hands in front of me, still playing with the cherry stem.
Maybe I should text Kayla since present company seems too preoccupied drooling over the bartender to carry on a conversation. Guaranteed she’s home, her nose stuck in a book. She’s a senior, and an overachieving one, at that. As if being on the Dean’s List every semester isn’t enough, she also holds down a full-time job.
I text her. Whatcha doing?
Studying.
Big surprise. I shouldn’t interrupt. She’s a bucket of stress during midterms. The instructors are taking great pleasure in pushing the students to the brink of sanity before spring break.
I text back, Have fun with that.
Are you out with Britt?
It’s breakup night. Kayla knows what that means, having joined us on several occasions as we helped Britt recover from another breakup. Most, if not all, of her breakups are self-induced. I never really understood why she needs to recover from a breakup she wanted in the first place.
I can be there in 15 with emergency chocolate.
I laugh and text back, This one requires vodka. I catch the way the bartender hasn’t stopped stealing glances at Britt since we walked in and add, And maybe a ride.
What happened to Britt?
Bartender. One word. That’s all I need to explain my predicament.
That’s one way to get over Peter.
Oh, sure. She remembers his name. Now I feel even worse that I thought this one was to recover from Paul. Then again, Kayla remembers everything. Get back to studying, slacker. See you Saturday. I work with her on weekends at one of the diners on campus. The wages suck, as do the tips. We serve greasy food and burnt coffee to broke college students. At least I eat for free, which is about the only time I get a decent meal.
A tingle whispers across my neck and I reach to rub it. Why do I suddenly feel the heat of someone watching me? I catch steely dark gray eyes indeed watching me, but they aren’t what has my heart beating faster and an odd hunger I didn’t even know I had in me spark to life. The owner of those eyes is so not my type. Why would I notice him? The guy takes the nerd look way too far. He has thick glasses perched on his nose, taped in the middle and all. His plaid button-up shirt is just that, buttoned up. All the way up. Is he sporting a mullet?
Maybe he lost a bet and had to dress that way. Or did it on a dare. The Pi Beta Deltas do stunts like this all the time to their pledges. Of course, it isn’t rush week, but that’s never stopped the Deltas from being dicks. That has to be why. Underneath that nerd costume is a hot guy waiting to be discovered. I need something to explain why I find myself attracted to who could possibly be the least attractive guy in the bar.
He’s sitting at a table with three recognizable Deltas, one the president of the frat, and all about ten points higher on the hotness scale. Yet something about him holds my attention. And then, as I’m about to come to my senses, he nails me with an intense look that has my stomach flopping and an odd sensation growing everywhere else.
I don’t turn away. Neither does he. My cheeks flame. I can’t seem to pull my gaze from him. The corner of his mouth tips up into a lopsided grin that has me ready to beg him to take me—in every sense of the word.
But then he lifts his beer and drops his attention, hiding behind it. The Delta president catches him watching me and the asshole laughs, which I don’t much appreciate. Typical Delta dick. From the way Mr. Steely Eyes sets his jaw, he doesn’t much appreciate it, either.
The bartender steps into the line of sight, blocking my attempt to give the Delta dick a glare from hell, which is probably for the best. I’m not very good at them.
“Vodka cranberry and one maraschino martini. Enjoy, ladies.” His gaze lingers on Britt, and she soaks it up like a thirsty sponge.
“He’s really cute,” she sighs as the bartender turns to wait on others gorgeous enough to be worthy of his attention.
“Yep,” I snap back, irritated I can’t stop sneaking glances at the nerd. Clearly, I’ve either had too much to drink or not enough. Or I’m exceptionally lonely. Or horny. Or both. This guy doesn’t even rate on my first date scale.
Yet, I can’t stop staring at him.
And now he’s staring right back at me.
3
{Emma}
When the nerd slams his gaze into mine, I quickly pretend to recognize someone at the door behind hi
m. I nod casually and even raise my refreshed drink. The guy at the door frowns at me and I shrug, a humiliating smile plastered on my face. The burn in my cheeks must be turning me six shades of red. Sweet shitting Jesus, I could die right now.
Of course, Mr. Steely Eyes is watching me make a fool of myself with keen interest. He works his jaw as President Delta Dick says something and laughs in his ear. After shaking his head, Steely Eyes turns to the Delta dick and clearly says, “No.” He follows it up with a shake of his head.
That’s when I catch his profile. Wow. Like holy Jesus, wow. He’s got seriously fine definition. High cheekbones. Square jaw. Perfect nose. All his nicely chiseled features fit together oh so very well. Even his ears add to the overall package. Ears? What’s the matter with me? I blink several times to break free of the odd pull he has over me. He catches me eyeing him. The heat from being caught engulfs my cheeks. He drops his attention to the empty glass in his hands. I’m oddly bruised at his dismissal. I don’t care if he notices me. And yet, I do.
Britt frowns at me. “What are you doing?”
Busted. I round my eyes and stare at my drink. “I, uh, nothing.”
She stretches her neck as she looks off in the direction I’m now avoiding. “Who is he?”
“Who’s who?”
“You’re not fooling anyone. You’ve got that ‘Project Em’s Way’ look again. Why do you do this to yourself? You find a guy who’s like the exact opposite of your type and try to fix him. First it was the guy from the sixth floor. Then that one from the twelfth floor. Then those two on the lacrosse team. Lacrosse. Like that’s even a sport.”
It’s a ridiculously cool sport, actually. Britt wouldn’t get it so I say nothing. If it doesn’t involve running a pigskin up and down the field, she doesn’t care. She barely cares about football. I sip slowly to distract myself from searching the room for the nerd with steely gray eyes.
“I know you, Em. You’ve got that look.”
“I don’t have any look.”
“You’ve got that look.”
“This is how I always look.” We go back and forth rapid fire. I don’t want her doing any of her psychoanalytical bullshit on me. She’s not even a psych major. She takes one class—an intro to psych class, at that—and suddenly she’s an expert.
“Did it ever occur to you maybe you should start going for guys your own type?”
Here we go again. “Maybe I like a challenge.”
“I think you just like having an excuse to stay single.”
“That, too.” I grab a handful of the bar mix snacks in the wicker basket between us and toss a few morsels into my mouth. “Besides, tonight isn’t about me. Remember?”
“I can’t believe you’re eating that. Not only is it full of germs from everyone else’s hands that have been in there, it’s, like, nothing but empty carbs.”
“And those empty carbs are now filling my empty stomach.” I smile sweetly to cover my irritation at everything that’s happened since stepping into this bar. Not finding a table and being forced to sit at the bar. Listening to Britt go on and on about her latest breakup—which sounds remarkably like all the rest of them. Now Britt mentally getting it on with the bartender. Oh, and let’s not forget how I have a nerd holding my attention way more than he should.
“Now that Peter is out of the picture, what’s your next move?” I toss more bar mix into my mouth and happily munch on the salty goodness.
“I want to meet a celebrity.”
Britt never ceases to amaze me on how fast she moves on. She’s heartbroken one minute, only to move on in record time, like now as she’s back to eyeing the bartender. “That was totally random.”
She looks off into the distance. “I’m thinking Channing Tatum.”
“Married.”
“Matthew McConaughey.”
“Also married.”
“Fine. Matt Bomer then.”
“Plays for the other team. I think he might be married, too.”
“Come on!”
I put my hands up when she shoots me with that look. “What? You’re just listing the names of the actors from Magic Mike.” I proceed to pick out all the peanuts from the mix and consume them. Damn, I should have eaten more than dry Ramen before drinking.
“Will you please stop eating that crap?”
“I’m starving.”
“You shouldn’t be eating that.” A deep voice rumbles behind me, heating me like a flame, licking and teasing me with a warmth reserved for things that happen behind closed doors. Hell, for that voice, I’d do him right out in the open.
I turn on my barstool, hopefully a playful smile on my face. Finally, I’m the one getting a little attention. As soon as I spot Mr. Steely Eyes standing there staring at me through those thick glasses, the smile melts from my face. When I swallow the last of the peanuts, I choke and clear my throat to cover it up. “It’s food.”
He nods at the snacks with a fierce, square jaw that doesn’t fit the rest of his features. His hair is in his eyes and he’s constantly pushing it aside. At least he isn’t doing the Bieber flip. That would be a deal breaker.
What am I thinking? His appearance alone is a deal breaker.
He pushes his hair out of his eyes again. “If you want food, maybe I could, uh… Maybe you’ll want, um… Maybe… Holy shit. You’re really talking to me.”
I find his obvious discomfort oddly appealing. Still, I refuse to flash him a smile. “Was there a coherent thought in there?”
The guy colors clear to his ears. “Sorry. I’m just not used to such a beautiful girl—uh, woman—talking to me.”
He jumps up a few pegs on my scale with that comment, but still not enough for me to give him the idea he has a chance. “Now I’m done talking to you.”
“Did you know those things are full of germs?” he asks, like I care.
“That’s what I told her,” Britt adds. I shoot her a look.
“I happen to like germs.” I stop myself from rolling my eyes at the lame comeback.
“That’s not what you said in chem today.”
“Uh… What?”
“I’m in chem with you. Last year it was English.”
I stare at him, not really sure I believe him. Did I just meet my first stalker?
“We both go to Bainbridge,” he adds.
“We do?” I seriously do not recognize him. At all.
I don’t miss the disappointment that clouds his expression. “We do.”
I feel bad that I don’t have a clue who this guy is. But, then again, Bainbridge University has almost as many students as the University of Washington. The difference? We have our own island. BU wins.
His smoky gray eyes have a wicked glimmer to them despite the obvious disappointment, accented far too perfectly by his dark hair. I even temporarily forgive the mullet. When he leans his elbow onto the bar and flashes me a crooked smile, I have to admit, he isn’t bad looking. Well, in a weird, nerdy sort of way. And he just keeps smiling. So, I smile back.
“Those are…um…some…uh…white teeth.”
Oh, my God. Seriously? That’s his pickup line? I drop my smile in the hopes he gets the hint and goes away. I even turn my back to him.
“How’d you get them so white?”
I roll my eyes at Britt, and she gives me a cute little crinkle of her nose. That’s her signal she’s not going to do a damn thing to get me out of this. Spinning on the stool, I nail him with a glare. “Was there anything else you needed? Or did you come all the way over here to compliment my teeth?”
He laughs, a slow and deep rumble that centers in his impressive chest. Damn if it doesn’t make me want to go home with him and unwrap him like a present. Hell, I’d even take him home with me. Britt could leave with the bartender.
What’s the matter with me? I don’t go for nerds. I go after the tall, dark, and delicious. I like guys with an air of mystery about them. I doubt this one has a single secret.
“Can I, um… What’s that yo
u’re drinking?”
“Maraschino martini.” I sip my drink and lick the remnants from my lips.
He stares at my mouth, his gaze lingering. It takes him a few seconds to snap out of it. “A cherry syrup martini?”
“Maraschino.” I make sure to say it nice and slow since he obviously missed it the first time.
“It’s still syrup no matter what you call it.” He lowers his voice, frustration dripping from his tone. His frustration is his own fault. He could always go away. I’m trying to let him down easy, but the guy can’t take a hint.
“Good thing I have a sweet tooth.”
“You have a sweet everything.”
I set my drink down and swing around to fully face him. Once I settle, I fold my hands in my lap. He studies my hands for several seconds before snapping his focus to my face. He doesn’t even pause at my breasts. For some reason, I’m oddly offended he doesn’t find my boobs worthy of attention. “How disappointing. With all the lines at your disposal, that’s the best you come up with? First you comment on my teeth and then on my sweet everything?”
He thrusts his hand through his messy hair and dances from foot to foot. He won’t meet my eyes now, instead staring at the floor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I mean… You’re just putting a lot of pressure on me.”
“How am I putting any pressure on you?”
“You’re so beautiful. I can’t even think straight. I can tell you that my—”
“Whoa there, big fella.” I put my hands up like a traffic cop. “Stop right there. I don’t care what part of you is straight at the moment.”
Reluctant Hero (TREX Rookies Book 1) Page 2
