Chapter 1
Harbor Westcott
I recognize her the second I see the back of her head. I should. I’ve stared at it enough to memorize every subtle strand of brown and golden blond that weaves through it, even when it’s pulled and twisted on top of her head like it is now.
She’s a nice reprieve from the memories that haunt me, like sunshine shining through a crack in the blinds and the first warm spring day after a long, dreary winter.
As I walk toward her, this is the first time I’ve been this close. She’s five-three, maybe five-four on a good day, though I would have guessed a little shorter, sizing her up in the auditorium.
Usually, I see her dressed in a pair of faded exercise pants with a baggy T-shirt hanging over her waist. Today, she’s looking damn good in the denim cutoffs hanging on the swell of her hips, and the shortened shirt doesn’t dare brush against the top of the shorts, leaving the slope of her waist exposed.
Though, I’d always wondered what color her eyes were, I’m now given the privilege as she looks up as if caught in a thought.
Green and bright despite the shadows of her dark lashes under the fluorescent lights of the convenience store.
Her sneakers have hit the pavement a few times, judging by the scuffs and black asphalt staining the bottoms that leave the slightest of prints on the white linoleum.
I’ve always thought she might be a runner by how toned her legs are and her chosen wardrobe in the past. I like that they’re not sticks and hold strength in muscle.
It's not that I’m not a tits man, but I do love a great ass. Hers has been noted.
I move down the aisle from her, eyeing the groceries lining the shelves. There’s nothing I need here, but her sweet scent and my deep-seated hunger to be near her draws me closer.
What am I doing?
Why am I acting like a fucking idiot?
I see her in class all the time, at least on the days I go.
But I’ve never craved her company, not like I do now.
Sure, she caught my eye. Lots of chicks do.
She’s different though . . . seemingly oblivious to my existence inside—and apparently, outside—the classroom, judging by her lack of awareness of my presence.
My ego isn’t fragile.
I like a challenge, but I love the taste of victory.
My life’s been boring walking a straight line for too long. This woman is just the detour I’m looking for. At least for a night or two.
I imagine she has a boyfriend, probably some schmuck back home, wherever she calls home, who’s waiting for her to return after graduation.
I’d bet a day’s work that doting middle-class parents who saved every penny to send their only daughter to an East Coast university are a part of her story, along with a hand-me-down Subaru with another good fifty-thousand miles before the odometer rolls over for the third time.
Such a charmed life she must lead.
My assumptions don’t do her any favors, but I never claimed I wasn’t an asshole.
I was never good at balancing bad deeds while looking the part of an altar boy.
Not like Lucas was. My cousin is probably laughing beyond the grave, watching me act like a nervous pre-teen having a brush with a middle school crush.
He might have laughed, but he’d also know that hitting on girls isn’t my usual MO . . . Opportunity usually presents itself and hits on me first. We never had trouble turning the heads of the fairer sex.
My innuendoes aren’t subtle. She’s either playing hard to get or is wholly consumed by the can of Beans & Franks in her hand.
I’ll assume the latter and make the effort.
“Don’t get hurt,” I say. Not my best work, but we’re in a convenience store, so I’m certain the bar is already pretty fucking low.
When I latch my gaze onto the pale-pink hem of her shirt, a flash of skin is given when she moves.
But I catch her gaze just in time to see it sliding up my chest until her eyes meet mine.
Tilting her head up, she studies me in silence, making it hard to read her thoughts.
Did I screw up? Is she going to give me the time of day or a tongue lashing .
. . must rid that wicked thought from my mind or start praying she’s into that kind of play.
I straighten my shoulders, debating if I should grab the requested diet soda and move on.
But then a half-hearted smile graces her lips. “Is that a warning?” She furrows her brow as her eyes narrow in the slightest. “Have we met?”
I shove my hands in my pockets, eyeing the full package. She’s cute. Innocent, like prey that doesn’t recognize the danger around her. Not sure she would stand out in a crowd, but she stood out to me prior, even in an auditorium full of people.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’d remember.” I’m too quick with a response. If I’m not careful, I’ll show my cards, and I’d rather her reveal her thoughts first.
Her expression eases, soaking in the compliment. “You would, huh?”
“Absolutely. I’d never forget you.”
She laughs, the sound ringing in the air. “Very charming.” Her gaze slides down my chest and back to the can as if it’s much more interesting.
“I try.”
Sighing, she does the slightest of eye rolls before I’m on the receiving end of her glare. “I have a feeling you don’t have to try at all when it comes to girls.”
Not seeming to break through her cooler composure, I finally realize I have no game with this girl.
“It was a warning,” I reply with full intention.
“For you?” She holds up the small can with an all-knowing grin and sees right through me. “Or this?”
This girl.
Fuck me.
What was I thinking? I just hit on her in a gas station convenience store in the middle of the day like she’d fall at my feet. What did I expect, for fuck’s sake?
I’m arrogant enough to believe I’m worthy of her attention, so I keep my eyes on her. “If you’re wise.”
“What happens if I’m not wise?” Her voice is as steady as her eyes are on me, which are locked in place.
Call me impressed. The girl can stand her ground, but I’m also starting to think she might be into me. “You might get hurt.”
Her gaze shifts, lengthening to a back corner of the store before she looks at me again. “Sometimes the pain is worth the risk.” Her body fills with attitude, shoulders straightening and chin held high. “Don’t you think?”
“Guess it depends on the risk.”
Biting her lip, she smiles to herself and looks back down at the can in her hands. “You’re probably right, but I’ll take my chances.”
Rubbing the pad of my thumb across my lower lip, I then say, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Don’t worry. You won’t be held liable for any damage in the aftermath.” She starts to leave but turns back a few feet away. “We’re talking about the beans, right? Like, this isn’t our meet cute?”
This girl. Fuck. She’s got my full attention and couldn't care less. “I don’t know what a meet cute is.”
“It’s how they meet in the movies.”
“Who’s they?”
“The main characters,” she replies like everyone knows what she’s talking about.
I’m still staring at her, trying to figure out what the fuck we’re going on about when I realize what she means. “You’re really into movies, aren’t you?”
“I am. It’s a nice escape.”
“From what?”
“Life.”
That has to be one of the most honest answers I’ve ever been given, and I’ve never felt more understood before.
With straightforward honesty like that, I’m determined to find out why this fascinating woman needs an escape from life. “I get that.” There’s a pause as her eyes look into mine, seeming to search for answers to questions she hasn’t asked.
The last thing I want to do is pour out my heart under the stench of gas or show that side of myself that I’ve worked fucking hard to bury. I need to get over it. I need to get on with life.
I say, “Did we ever decide what you wanted to discuss? The frank and beans or how we met?”
“Quite frankly, pun intended,” she says, laughing lightly, “I’m not sure.” I have a feeling that’s the only thing she’s ever been uncertain about.
She has me competing with beans, for Christ’s sake. I’ll do it if it gets me closer to her. “How about we find out? You can eat that alone, or we can discuss the virtuous qualities of canned meat and beans versus our meet cute over something we didn’t heat in the microwave. What do you think?”
She takes me in unabashedly, not seeming the least displeased with what she sees, but then says, “I’m good,” and walks away.
Damn.
I played this all wrong . . . I played her all wrong.
But when she starts back to me like she’s on a mission to settle a score, I know I’ve gotten to her.
Guess I played this right, after all. She holds the can up and waggles it in the air.
“And who said I’ll be eating this alone?
” Cocking an eyebrow in challenge, she knows she scored the winning point.
The rubber bottoms of her sneakers squeak against the linoleum tiles as she heads to the register.
I cover my wounded heart. Okay, not really, but I fucking hate to lose. Throwing my arms out to the sides, I ask, “So is that a yes?”
Shooting me a glare that buries any chance of redemption I thought I might have, she says, “It’s a no.”
They say you can’t win them all, but my record remained undefeated until now. I look around, glad there are no witnesses.
I grab the soda for Marina, almost forgetting the reason I came in here, and head to the counter.
“Hey, how are ya?” the guy asks my current fixation . . . Is that what she is? Am I fixated or fascinated? I might side with fascination more than fixated, which borders on obsession. Though by how I’ve watched her over the last month in class, obsession might not be far off.
I don’t like the way he’s staring at her with his smarmy smile after a quick rattle of his fingers across the register keys.
He dips down on one elbow and smacks his lips together.
“I get off in an hour if you wanna . . .” Clicking his tongue, he continues, “You know. I’ll even let you come behind the counter. There’s lots of room down here.”