Enamor (Hearts of Stone #3) (2 page)

I've been subjected to enough of that lately.

He goes to say something but then seems to resist. Instead, he scrunches his mouth up in the universal gesture for 'not bad' before turning to make his way to the other end of the counter.

I glower after him so long I forget I'm holding up the line, as well. After I order, I have no choice but to walk over to where that guy stands with his eyes fixed squarely on the barista as she prepares our drinks.
 

There's something about his demeanor that gives me the impression, for a split second, that maybe he's my type.
 

He's not. It's just a trick of the ovaries.

His posture is so relaxed, shoulders angled downward, shirt hugging the curve of his chest before swooping down over an abdomen I'm sure is as firm as the rest of him seems.

And…why am I even imagining that? There's no need for that image to pop into my head. Just like there's no need for me to take note of his hands in his pockets, thumbs pointing toward the crotch of his pants.

"Are you looking for something?"

My eyes snap up at his question, only to be met by smug satisfaction.

"Yeah, you wish," I say, turning away from him to stare straight ahead.

"Yeah…yeah, I do." And though he says it low, it's obvious he wants me to hear. I pretend not to.
 

Every pore of my skin is hyper-aware of standing there beside him. And like I always do when I feel self-conscious, I pull my shoulders back and pretend the opposite. Because this guy oozes egotistical womanizer vibes, and I've learned to not shrink around those types, to never show them weakness.

"You go to school here?" he asks after a moment.

We're on the last week of classes and I don't remember ever seeing this guy around campus—which isn't surprising since it's a pretty big campus—but I have the sudden fear he's been sitting behind me in one of my psychology classes all semester without me noticing. Except that's pretty unlikely. Male psych majors tend to stick out like a sore thumb, at least in my classes.

My gaze flicks to him. "Are you seriously trying to make small talk with me?"

"Yeah?" His head tilts and I inadvertently catch how the lighting overhead brings out a coppery hue to his hair that complements his lightly bronzed skin. I mean, barely bronzed. Very, very lightly bronzed. Whatever, I'm sure he'll be paler than a bowl of rice the instant summer ends.

I decide I don't want to look at him again as I respond. "I guess you need to brush up on your nonverbal cues."

"I'd say I'm already pretty good in that department."

Even from the corner of my eye, I catch his smile. I turn to face him straight on.
 

"So how is it you're missing that I'm not interested in talking to you?"

"You couldn't have decided that already. We haven't even met, yet."

Yeah, we've met. I know his type just fine.
 

Once again, my hands are at my hips before I decide to put them there. "Yet for every two words you say to me, you look down my shirt."

"What's your name?" he asks with a laugh.
 

My eyes narrow automatically and I turn to face the barista as she finishes up a drink on the machine. She sets his coffee down and he takes it. Their fingers graze but her smile is cut short when she realizes how quickly he turns away. He thinks he's found a new object for his attention, has he? Well, he's mistaken.

Cup in hand, he faces me, tapping his palm on the surface as though securing the lid, but his eyes are on mine. And I want nothing more than for him to turn his attention somewhere else. I'm not going to lie. The guy is good looking. But damn it if one glance isn't enough to tell me what he's about. I've got a lifetime of grudges held against guys like him. He'd better leave me alone before I let them all loose on him at once.

"Is it something exotic?" he asks.
 

I stare back, straight faced, as his gaze moves over my dark hair and tan skin, before fixing on my equally dark eyes again.

 
"Your name, I mean. Is it Camila or Gabriela…something like that
,
right?"

He takes a sip, waiting for my response.

I don't get it. It's obvious I'm annoyed by his attempt at small talk, yet it's almost like he's finding entertainment in my aggravation.

I have just under five minutes to reach my destination. All the while, I'm aware of this guy's eyes watching me. I can feel them, perusing around at will. Shamelessly.
 

"Julia," the barista calls out as she sets my drink down.

Damn her.

I grab the cup with one hand, adjust my purse strap with the other, and ignore the soft chuckle rising from Giles as I make my way past him.

"See you around, Julia," he says, in that sly way he seems to say everything else.

Yeah, I don't think so.
 

Once outside, I indulge in a long sip of my drink, only to immediately resist the urge to spit it back out. What meets my tongue isn't the mocha latte I ordered. It's something that tastes like vanilla and cardboard. Not only that, I realize as I reach the end of the sidewalk, the barista never handed over my pastry, which was supposed to be warming up as she made the drinks.
 

I toss the ruined-drink into a trash bin at the streetlight, irritation surging through me at the barista's weak ovaries and her drooling over such an obvious asshole.

CHAPTER TWO

Julia

T
HE
DOOR
OPENS
TO
reveal a tall girl with her hair pulled up into a knot on the top of her head.
 

She grins widely. "Morning, roomie."

"Ava, hey."
 

I can't help but smile at her greeting, it brings a strange sense of relief that she still seems excited at the prospect of me moving in.
 

She pulls back the door and urges me inside. As I step over the threshold, I notice how her face is fresher than I remember, cheeks tinged pink and hazel eyes appearing smaller without any makeup on them. She told me before that she works late shifts and typically doesn't start her day until after ten in the morning. It's been a struggle trying to find the right time to get together about the lease. The majority of our conversations have been through text messages.

"Thanks for letting me come early. I have another class in an hour," I say, as I walk further inside.
 

The entrance yields to a kitchen, then a living room further down. The decor is simple and unassuming. Ava's mismatched furniture is sort of chic in a way that looks effortless and intentional at the same time. The place is clean and smells like laundry detergent, which I appreciate. Most of the places I checked out on campus left me afraid to touch any of the surfaces with my bare hands.

I follow her into the living room, as she says, "No, I should be thanking you for dragging me out of bed. I don't usually get anything done before my afternoon classes. I should be studying for finals. I won't have time next week between work and exams."

"Sounds like you've got a crazier work schedule than I do," I say, taking her lead and sitting down on one of the tan couches. Settled in beside me, Ava pulls one of the decorative pillows onto her lap.

"You mentioned before that you work nearby?"

"I bartend over at Callistro's Bar and Grill."

"Love that place. Great ribs, drinks are great, too. I used to date one of the bartenders…" Ava perks up as she launches into a salacious story of her short but intense fling with a bartender named Derik. I've worked shifts with him, and I'm surprised to hear of this considering his quiet, almost timid demeanor.

Ava and I go on chatting for a while, pretending the point of me being here is just to visit instead of to meet her cousin so we can make the ultimate decision on moving in. I don't mind passing the time with Ava. She's easy to talk to, asking me questions about my life, my major, and whether I've started dating—a question she asked the first time we met and I may have responded to a bit defensively.
 

Ava pries that topic open a bit more and asks, "Did you just go through a breakup or something?"

"I did. I'm a little bitter at the moment, to be honest."

"Yeah, I've been there," she says. "It will pass. You're just in the fire-breathing stage of the breakup. The hurt and anger will fade until it's all a distant memory."

She says it with so much certainty that I want to take her words, fold them, and tuck them away inside, to remind myself later. Even though I know full well that her advice doesn't apply to my situation.
 

I don't typically discuss my personal life with someone I barely know, but the truth is I don't have anyone else I can confide in lately. Ava's one of those people that leans into your words like you're the most interesting person in the world, her eyes eager as she listens intently. Maybe too intently.
 

Eventually, though, she reaches the outskirts of a topic I'm not comfortable with, asking me what my deciding factor was in moving down from Newport Beach. I keep my answer vague and ease my way right out of the conversation.

"So, my room would be one of the two at the end of the hall, right?" She nods and I continue, "And you'll be in the master suite at the other end?"
 

"No, I'll be on the first room to the right, on your end of the hall."

I pull the lease out of my purse, taking a second to smooth it out on the coffee table, wondering if the question I really want to ask is any of my business. But I can't help it. I never can.
 

"Why don't you want the master suite?"

A polite smile crosses her face and she busies herself with adjusting the back of her bun as she says, "When I told my mom I'd take over the mortgage, I was in a position to afford it with just one roommate. But a month later my mom got sick. I'm saving every expense to pay for her care. My cousin can afford to pay for the larger portion of the rent and, really, I don't mind the smaller room."

My stomach clenches with discomfort at having prodded into such a personal topic. Silence follows that I'm meant to fill, but I swallow instead, grateful when Ava looks down to the lease papers in front of me and changes the subject.
 

"Oh, awesome, you already signed everything. Guess it's a done deal?"

I smile. "I'm ready to move my stuff in this weekend. Let's just hope your cousin doesn't immediately hate my guts."

Her eyes are trained on the pages in her hands as she flips through, looking for the portions that require her signature.

"Don't worry," she says, "I'm not related to any murderers or drug dealers that I know of. Family knows each other's secrets better than strangers, you know? Renting to strangers is always a roll of the dice; you never know what you'll get. No offense, you seem great."

"No, I know exactly what you mean. I've only lived with my family up until now. This is…different for me. But I'm excited." My lips tug into something that doesn't truly match the anxiety stirring on the inside. I'm still nervous about taking this step, moving out on my own for the first time with people I barely know. But Ava's right…I don't know her any better than I know the cousin I've never met. I doubt Ava would want to live with this girl if she were someone impossible to get along with. "Will she be here soon?" I ask Ava, checking the time to realize we've been waiting a while.

"
Umm
…she?" Ava straightens out the papers she just finished signing and nervously glances at her watch. "My cousin's a guy."

My jaw goes lax and a brief panic takes hold of me. "What?"

Her response is interrupted by a click from the front door as the knob turns. She and I get to our feet just as a tall guy walks in, bringing with him a burst of masculine energy that seems to absorb all of the air in the room.
 

We lock eyes, he and I, and my stomach takes a downward plunge. It's him. The asshole from the coffee shop. He's standing in my new living room, eyebrows lifting slightly, either from surprise or in anticipation of being introduced. Mouth parted in confusion, I turn helplessly to Ava and find her staring at me, too.