“That’s an unusual major. I go there too. But I’m a bio major. Pre-med.”
“I’m allergic to science classes. I have a doctor’s note excusing me from taking them.”
“And what exactly does this note say?”
“That they induce severe narcolepsy, followed by incurable boredom, and finally metastasizing into absolute numbing of the brain tissue. So, as you can see, it would not be beneficial for me to take them. And I suppose that, combined with the school’s 20,000-plus attendees, explains why I’ve never seen you around campus before.”
“Maybe you have seen me,” she said, posing it like a challenge. “Maybe you just don’t remember.”
I shook my head and leaned closer. “No. I’ve never seen you. Because I’d remember you,” I said, and maybe I was laying it on thick, but again, I was speaking the cold hard truth. I had an excellent memory for many things, but especially for pretty girls with sexy lips and trim little waists. Mix in the attitude, chase it with a California accent, and you were pretty much permanently imprinted on ye olde little brain of William.
Jess
He might be studying East Asian languages, but he clearly double majored in the art of flirting. “Yeah, right,” I scoffed. “You’re a junior? Are you twenty? Twenty-one?”
“Senior actually. And yes, twenty-one. So no need to worry. I’m totally legal. For anything you want,” he added, in a far-too-inviting tone that made me want to say yes to anything. My stomach flipped, like a disobedient little witch.
I shifted away from his talk of anything. Because, despite all his charms and quick wittery, something was nagging at me. The sheer coincidence of us. I crinkled my brow as I posed the question: “What are the chances that there’d be two seniors at the University of Los Angeles working for J.P.and his coterie of celebrity magazines and sites?”
“College isn’t free,” he said, keeping his gaze fixed on me the whole time. His dark, stormy-eyed gaze, such a contrast to that sunshine-y personality.
“Hmm. That’s usually my line,” I said. Though, these days it would be medical school isn’t free and the bill is due in two months for your first semester.
“Looks like we have something in common, Jess,” he said, leaning back in his chair as he took the final bite of his cone. He had the casual, laidback attitude down pat. He looked damn fine too playing that role. That’s what worried me–was this whole banter-like-the-best-of-them part of a plan to bamboozle me? Was it all a role? “We’re both working stiffs,” he added.
“Seems we are,” I admitted, and I partially wondered if he was paying his way through college too in the pursuit of the next thing, like I was as I aimed for money to pay down the monster of med school. But if I started asking, as curious as I was, I’d wind up in a longer conversation, and that would be grade A top-choice trouble. Because I already liked talking to him.
Just as I liked the ice cream cone.
My brain warned me: danger ahead.
I took one more lick of the cone, a bite of the chocolate shell, then tossed the cone in the nearest trash can.
His eyes widened. “You chucked your ice cream? How can you chuck an ice cream cone?”
“That was all I wanted.” Because it was true. Because I’d worked hard to be able to stop at a few bites. I could do the same with his British Hotness. I was damn proud of myself for having mastered restraint in matters of food and hot guys. I stood up. “Thank you for the ice cream.”
He rose too. He was taller than me by a good six inches. Which gave me a perfect view of his full lips as we stood face to face. Which made me want to touch them. To run a finger over them. Assess how they felt. Lean in for a kiss. A guy like that, funny, hot, totally at ease–he had to be a great kisser.
Scratch that. I bet he was an excellent kisser.
He tilted his head to the side, pressed those nice lips together, then took a beat as if he were a touch nervous. “Do you want to go out for another bite of an ice cream cone sometime?”
Oh no. Was he asking me out? No way. He was just being friendly. He was scoping out the competition. Nothing more. “So I can have another bite and then toss it?” I asked, because it was so much safer to avoid the possibility.
“How about a chocolate cake? You wouldn’t throw that out, would you?”
“I might toss it.”
“What about pizza instead?” he suggested, undeterred by my lack of an immediate yes.
I shook my head.
“Fries?”
Another shake.
“Sandwich? Burger? Hot dog?”
Shake. Shake. Shake. Restraint. Restraint. Restraint.
“Don’t tell me a salad,” he said, and flung his hand dramatically across his forehead. “Now, I know I’m in L.A.”
I raised my cheap sunglasses on top of my blond hair. I was going to have to kick the door closed. Whatever he was doing–asking me out, or egging me on–it needed to end. Because if I went along with him then I’d have the whole ice cream. Him. Lick him up and down and all around like the tastiest ice cream there ever was. Kiss him all over. Grab him and pull him against me, and feel how we aligned. He had to go the way of the cone. “Harrigan, this isn’t the part in the script where the heroine caves and agrees to go out with the guy.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Oh, so I’m the guy in the script? Does that mean I’m the hero?”
“Well, you’re either the hero, the villain or the gay best friend,” I said, my lips curving up in a traitorous grin. Damn him for being so easy to talk to, and about my favorite topic.