Wild on You (34 page)

“No need to order,” he says, pressing a lid down onto one of the cups before sliding it across the counter at me. “You can have this one. It’s the Ethan Special.”

“No, thank you.” I don’t even glance at the cup. “I’d prefer a Hawaiian Sunrise.”

“How do you know that’s what you’d prefer? You don’t even know what’s in the Ethan Special.”

Judging from his behavior, I’m thinking grass of the non-wheat variety. And since this is my first day, I’m not exactly prepared to risk it, no matter how hot he is. “I don’t have to know what’s in it to know that I’m in the mood for—” I glance back at the menu. “A refreshing blend of strawberries, bananas, pineapple juice, and orange sherbet. None of which appear to be in the drink you just made.”

“This drink has strawberries in it. Seven, to be exact.”

Thirty-eight blueberries and seven strawberries. Is this guy for real? There’s a part of me that’s intrigued despite myself, but I’m not about to let him see that. So I just look down my nose at him and answer, “One out of four ingredients is not what I would call a perfect match.”

“Is that important to you?” he asks, one dark eyebrow raised. “That things match up perfectly?”

Absolutely. I’m obsessive about it, really, making sure things fit exactly where they’re supposed to. Making sure the
i
’s are all dotted and the
t
’s are all crossed and the rules have all been followed. Tori calls me OCD, but it’s not like that. It’s not the routine of doing something a certain way that appeals to me. It’s the order of the end result that I crave, the knowledge that things are exactly as they should be.

And while I’m aware that sounds a little crazy, it’s actually what’s kept me sane the last six years. Ever since Brandon—

I slam that door shut before the memories leak out from where I’ve buried them. No way am I going to think about him again
ever
, let alone on what is the best day I’ve had in a very long time. No, I’m going to focus on keeping things simple. Orderly. Easy. After all, I’m not one to rock the boat just to see what falls out.

I don’t tell any of this to him, of course. Instead, I raise one of my own brows and say, “You’re the one who counts the blueberries in his drink. All I’m trying to do is get what I ordered sometime before the dinner rush. Which, incidentally, starts in”—I make a show of glancing at my watch—“approximately four hours.”

“So, we’ve got plenty of time then. Why don’t you pull up a bar stool and we’ll get to know each other a little? I don’t have anywhere I need to be.”

The guy next to him—the trainee—makes a choked little sound in the back of his throat. But he doesn’t say anything, just takes a drink from the second Ethan Special cup, so I don’t bother looking over at him. Especially since every instinct I have is screaming at me to keep my eyes on the guy in front of me. That looking away would be akin to admitting a defeat I am suddenly hell-bent on avoiding.

“Well, that makes one of us. I, however, have a meeting in fifteen minutes that I
can’t be late for.”

“Hmm. That certainly puts you at a disadvantage then, doesn’t it?”

“Why? Because I have a job that actually requires me to perform the duties that are in my job description?”

This time the noise the trainee makes sounds somewhere between a cat hacking up a furball and a hyena in its death throes. “Are you okay?” I finally demand, still not taking my eyes off his trainer. “Because, frankly, I’m getting concerned.”

He makes the sound again, then slaps his chest hard before taking another long sip from his drink. “I’m good, thanks.”

“Glad to hear it. I was beginning to think he’d poisoned you.”

“I never poison anyone on the first day. The second day, however, is an entirely different story.”

“I wouldn’t go around admitting that to anyone. It makes you—and Frost Industries—culpable if anyone ever suffers so much as a mild case of food poisoning.”

He steps back then, looks me over from top to toes. “God. You’re one of the lawyers, aren’t you?”

I might have been excited that it was that obvious, except he definitely doesn’t make it sound like a compliment. Which, I admit, gets my hackles up even more. “Is that a problem?”

Before he can answer, someone comes up behind me and orders a Hawaiian Sunrise. The trainer chats easily with him even as he begins scooping ingredients into a blender. Less than ninety seconds later, he puts a beautiful, pinkish orange smoothie on the counter. The guy runs his badge through the scanner, grabs his drink, and then heads off with a wave.

I watch the whole thing go down, then turn to him in disbelief. “Are you kidding me? Are. You. Freaking. Kidding. Me?”

He does an admirable job of looking confused. “Is something wrong?”

“You just gave him my drink!”

“No. I just gave him his drink.” He taps the cup in front of me. “That’s your
drink.”

I’m not even sure what I’m feeling at this point. Annoyance, definitely. Shock, probably. Amusement? Strangely enough, I think there’s some of that going on, too. This guy is so brash, so bold, so in-my-face that I can’t help being impressed. Even as I’m determined to put him in his place.

“Are you always this insufferable?” I demand.

“Only when I’m right.”

“I thought the customer was always right.”

He cocks his head to the side, pretends to think for a second. Then says, “Nope. Not always. But hey, how about this? I’ll make your drink right now if you give the Ethan Special a try.” He pushes the smoothie a little closer to me. “Come on. Just one sip.”

“I didn’t realize this was a negotiation.”

“Life is a negotiation.”

“No. It’s a cereal.” I eye the smoothie. “What if I don’t like it?”

“What if you do?”

“It’s an unnecessary risk.”

“Almost everything is an unnecessary risk. Sometimes the risk is worth the reward.” He’s smiling now, but the look in his eyes is intense. Interested.
Interesting
. It tugs at something deep inside me, makes me wonder, when I
never
wonder. Makes me want, when I
never
want.

That’s when I take a step back and look at him, really look at him. Except for his dark hair, he’s the quintessential California surf bum. Bright blue Hurley T-shirt. Quiksilver board shorts with wide, color-blocked stripes in red, orange, yellow, and blue. Tan leather flip-flops. Gorgeous face. Dark stubble on his chin. Too-long hair flopping in his eyes. Even the hint of a tattoo peeking out from under the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. Totally not the kind of guy I would normally go for.

And yet there’s something familiar about him. And also something that intrigues me. That makes me want to yield to him when I don’t normally yield to anyone. For a
moment, just a moment, I think about picking up that stupid purple shake and drinking it. I’m running out of time, after all, and the afternoon will drag by if I don’t eat something.

I could just walk away, grab a sandwich and some fruit from one of the coolers, and eat it on my way back to Building Three. But that feels too much like retreat, something that I suddenly realize would disappoint us both.

Which means we’re at a stalemate. Him insisting I try something new. Me insisting I’m fine with the tried and true. It’s a stupid fight to have, especially with a stranger, but the look in his eyes can’t be denied. We both know there’s more going on here than a battle over a stupid drink

I can’t believe I’m going to do it, can’t believe that after all this fuss I’m going to take a sip of that damn smoothie, but I am. I reach for it, am compelled to reach for it by the look in his eyes and the sudden tension in his body. But as my hand closes around the cup, my stomach growls. Loudly.

It breaks the spell and I flush in embarrassment. So much for first-day nerves. A tangle with the juice bar guy and suddenly my appetite is back with a vengeance.

“You’re hungry,” he says. His voice is colored with a sudden regret I don’t understand.

“It’s lunchtime. That’s my lunch.”

The next thing I know, he’s back at the blender, loading it with cut-up bananas and an extra-large serving of strawberries—definitely more than seven. He adds a large scoop of protein powder, then sherbet and juice.

Moments later, an extra-large Hawaiian Sunrise smoothie appears in front of me.

I’m confused. Uncertain, suddenly, though I don’t know why. I like to win. It’s kind of an obsession with me, so I should be happy that he backed down so unexpectedly. Except I’m not, because winning like this feels strangely like losing.

Under his watchful gaze, I reach for my smoothie. But at the last second—don’t ask me why because I don’t have a clue—I grab his instead. Take a long sip. Then place the cup back down on the counter.

Then I gather up my smoothie and turn away without glancing at him again. I
can’t. I’m too unsettled by what just happened. By what I just did and why I did it.

I’ve only gone a few steps, though, when he calls after me. “Hey!”

I turn back, even though I tell myself not to. “Yes?”

“What did you think? Of the Ethan Special?”

“Exactly what I thought I would. It’s disgusting.”

He rears back in surprise. “Disgusting? Really?”

“Really. I hate blueberries.”

He doesn’t say another word, but then again, neither do I. Still, the question hangs between us. If I really hate blueberries so much, why did I drink his smoothie when he’d already given me what I ordered?

I don’t know the answer to that question, but as I walk away, I can feel his eyes on me. And somehow I’m certain that until I do know, until I understand, things will never be the same for me again.

Read on for a sneak peek at

Yours to Keep

by Serena Bell

Available from Loveswept

Ana Travares had let down her guard. She’d stopped hearing her brother’s voice in her head, warning her not to say too much. Telling her not to make friends too easily. Reminding her that she—that they—didn’t have the luxury of trusting other people. Ever.

At some point, she’d let her shoulders drop from their usual spot around her ears and started to believe that maybe, just maybe, nothing too terrible would happen, as long as she kept her nose clean and didn’t break any rules.

She’d enjoyed living like a normal person. She’d lost that sense of peering around the next corner, anticipating the next challenge. And it had been a relief, like taking full breaths for the first time after wearing a too-tight dress.

Only now she thought it might not have been worth it, because the adrenaline of sudden danger packed such a vicious punch: nausea, trembling hands, tight throat. She spoke nearly flawless English, but authority figures could make her forget every word.

All Ed Branch, the high school’s new academic-support specialist, had said was “We have a new lawyer,” but that had been enough to make her sick.

“The new lawyer’s a dot-the-
i
’s and cross-the-
t
’s type,” Ed said. He sat behind his tidy desk, tipping his chair back. “Wants a CORI from everyone who breathes near the high school. You know what a CORI is, right?” He raised his eyebrows. “Criminal Offender Record Information. It’s a criminal-background check.”

She nodded, shifting in the hard seat he’d offered her. Her anxiety felt visible.

“Next thing, he’ll be asking people who drive through the school zone to do background checks, too. Can you see it? Stopping drivers at the crosswalk, handing pens and CORIs through the window?” He laughed. “The point is we’re not singling you out. Everyone who has anything to do with kids has to complete one. You have to, if you want to stay on the Recommended Tutors list.”

That list was her lifeline to work in Beacon. She got half her income from
tutoring, and nearly all her tutoring clients through the school. Beacon wasn’t the only town with students who needed tutoring, but it was one of the few towns left in Massachusetts that still had a vibrant foreign-language program, one of the few towns where most parents had enough money and time to hire tutors, and the only town of that sort she could get to without a car. She needed Ed’s referrals.

“You have to do a criminal-background check just to keep my name on that list?”

“Yep. Crazy, if you ask me. We’re going to spend more time chasing people down to get these things—”

Ed bent his head, and she watched him ransack a file drawer. He slid a sheet of paper over the walnut desk. “I’ll need to see some form of government-issued ID, too.”

It didn’t look like much, that piece of paper. It had the high school’s letterhead on it and a series of blank lines, but those lines demanded information that she couldn’t provide. Name—she could do that. Address—yes, she had one of those. Last three addresses—she could dredge those up, with some difficulty, because although they’d moved frequently, they’d stayed in Hawthorne, a small city just outside Boston’s magnetic field. But Social Security number?

This would be so easy for most people. Whip out a driver’s license. Jot down an SSN. Smile, move on.

Not easy for her. Not at all.

Sometimes she wished like hell that her brother hadn’t been so careful with her, that he’d let her fake her way, as many undocumented immigrants did. Then she could calmly reach for that piece of paper and write someone else’s Social Security number on it.

“Is there a problem, sweetheart?”

Her mind raced. If she could stall the process, maybe Ed would forget. Or the forms would get lost. “Do you need it now?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? It’ll just take a minute.”

None of this would be happening if Ed’s predecessor were still in charge of coordinating the school’s tutoring programs. Louisa Grieg had been an easy-to-please,
befuddled old biddy. Ana desperately missed her now.

Leave
, a voice in Ana’s head shouted.
Just get up and leave
.

She made herself think of her niece and nephews. Her tutoring money paid for vital groceries like milk and cereal, and school supplies, clothes. There was no margin of error in her household, no room for screwups.