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Authors: Rachel van Dyken
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I launched it off my finger, rubber-band style, in the general direction of the trash can. It missed by a few inches. Meaning some poor soul was possibly going to discover that sad, ugly little treasure and put it to good use. Let’s hope not, for everyone’s sake—for the sake of eyes everywhere. “May it rest in peace.”
Blake hunched her shoulders as a crowd of guys stomped all over it. “It’s the only thing that keeps my hair back.”
“We’ll find you something else that doesn’t make you look like you starred in Napoleon Dynamite , okay?”
Her eyes narrowed.
I staggered back a few steps. “Whoa.” Gripping her shoulders, I leaned in. “Did you change eye color overnight?”
“No.” Her eyes widened. “Why?” She pressed her hands to her face. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. My eyes are probably bloodshot.”
Actually, just the opposite. They were gorgeous, clearer than they’d been in class. She had a bit of green that outlined the irises. It was . . . mesmerizing.
“Ian?” Blake whispered. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I jerked back and forced a laugh. “Just . . . let’s go. I could eat a herd of cows right now.” I clicked open a text from Lex and scanned the busy eating areas.
Lex: Every night after practice he eats at Asian Fusion. Gross. You’ll find General Tso at his usual spot.
“How’s Asian sound?” I didn’t wait for Blake to answer, just steered her toward the line and fired off an order for fried rice and something that looked like chicken but had a gray tint to it. “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” Blake said quickly.
I frowned. “You mean you want no food? None at all?”
“I, uh”—she blushed—“didn’t bring my purse with me.”
My mouth dropped open. “Holy shit . . . you own a purse?”
“Very funny.”
“Is it Guess?” I grinned.
She punched me in the arm while I kept guessing. “Tommy Hilfiger? Calvin Klein? Oh damn. Please, please tell me it’s actually a Caboodles case masquerading as a purse. That would make my entire week.”
At Blake’s blush, I knew I was close.
“Coach.” I sighed. “We’ll get you a Coach purse.”
“But that doesn’t match my clothes.”
I eyed her up and down and forced my lips shut so I wouldn’t say something else offensive. To be honest, I was damn curious about what would match her clothes and equally horrified with the possibility that she’d have an answer.
“What?” She put her hands on her hips.
“Food or no food?” The guy at the register looked like he was ready to quit.
“I already said I don’t have my purse.”
“We know,” the dude said in a bitter tone. “But I’m sure Daddy Warbucks can spot you a five.”
I rolled my eyes. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded.
I waved my hand over the register like magic. “So you eat. I’d order,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth, “before he spits in your food.”
“Egg rolls.” She nodded again. “Four.”
“Finally,” he muttered, keying it into his register and taking my twenty. The minute money exchanged hands, I felt the tingle again.
It wasn’t a good tingle, like the kind you feel postorgasm.
It was a bad tingle, like the kind you get when a girl reaches for your balls in an unfriendly manner.
With a heavy swallow, I moved down the line, frowning. Was it possible? Was that meal the first one I’d purchased for a woman since high school?
I stared at my receipt like it was a death sentence, then quickly shoved it into my pocket. Out of sight, out of mind. It wasn’t a date. I wasn’t feeding Blake because I liked her. I was feeding her simply because I was hungry, and I felt guilty eating in front of her.
“Are you okay?” Blake touched my shoulder.
“Of course.” Keeping my cool, I waited for the food, then carried our tray toward the back table. As we made our way through the scattered crowd, whispering commenced. I never tired of it.
Of the way girls stared
Blake hunched her shoulders as a crowd of guys stomped all over it. “It’s the only thing that keeps my hair back.”
“We’ll find you something else that doesn’t make you look like you starred in Napoleon Dynamite , okay?”
Her eyes narrowed.
I staggered back a few steps. “Whoa.” Gripping her shoulders, I leaned in. “Did you change eye color overnight?”
“No.” Her eyes widened. “Why?” She pressed her hands to her face. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. My eyes are probably bloodshot.”
Actually, just the opposite. They were gorgeous, clearer than they’d been in class. She had a bit of green that outlined the irises. It was . . . mesmerizing.
“Ian?” Blake whispered. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” I jerked back and forced a laugh. “Just . . . let’s go. I could eat a herd of cows right now.” I clicked open a text from Lex and scanned the busy eating areas.
Lex: Every night after practice he eats at Asian Fusion. Gross. You’ll find General Tso at his usual spot.
“How’s Asian sound?” I didn’t wait for Blake to answer, just steered her toward the line and fired off an order for fried rice and something that looked like chicken but had a gray tint to it. “What do you want?”
“Nothing,” Blake said quickly.
I frowned. “You mean you want no food? None at all?”
“I, uh”—she blushed—“didn’t bring my purse with me.”
My mouth dropped open. “Holy shit . . . you own a purse?”
“Very funny.”
“Is it Guess?” I grinned.
She punched me in the arm while I kept guessing. “Tommy Hilfiger? Calvin Klein? Oh damn. Please, please tell me it’s actually a Caboodles case masquerading as a purse. That would make my entire week.”
At Blake’s blush, I knew I was close.
“Coach.” I sighed. “We’ll get you a Coach purse.”
“But that doesn’t match my clothes.”
I eyed her up and down and forced my lips shut so I wouldn’t say something else offensive. To be honest, I was damn curious about what would match her clothes and equally horrified with the possibility that she’d have an answer.
“What?” She put her hands on her hips.
“Food or no food?” The guy at the register looked like he was ready to quit.
“I already said I don’t have my purse.”
“We know,” the dude said in a bitter tone. “But I’m sure Daddy Warbucks can spot you a five.”
I rolled my eyes. “Are you hungry?”
She nodded.
I waved my hand over the register like magic. “So you eat. I’d order,” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth, “before he spits in your food.”
“Egg rolls.” She nodded again. “Four.”
“Finally,” he muttered, keying it into his register and taking my twenty. The minute money exchanged hands, I felt the tingle again.
It wasn’t a good tingle, like the kind you feel postorgasm.
It was a bad tingle, like the kind you get when a girl reaches for your balls in an unfriendly manner.
With a heavy swallow, I moved down the line, frowning. Was it possible? Was that meal the first one I’d purchased for a woman since high school?
I stared at my receipt like it was a death sentence, then quickly shoved it into my pocket. Out of sight, out of mind. It wasn’t a date. I wasn’t feeding Blake because I liked her. I was feeding her simply because I was hungry, and I felt guilty eating in front of her.
“Are you okay?” Blake touched my shoulder.
“Of course.” Keeping my cool, I waited for the food, then carried our tray toward the back table. As we made our way through the scattered crowd, whispering commenced. I never tired of it.
Of the way girls stared
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