“Sorry, hun,” the lady behind the glass says. “There’s no more cake. How about a brownie?”
Indignant, I stare openly at her. “I’m looking right at the cake.”
She shrugs. “Last piece is always reserved, sweetie.” She winks at the guy beside me.
He clears his throat and says, “Hi, Gina. The carrot cake, please.” She smiles, a hint of rosy red tinting her cheeks, and places the slice of cake on a paper plate before handing it to him over the glass.
Unbelievable. My inner snob balks at the lady as I slide my tray toward the cashier. I pull out my credit card from my crochet change purse (which I learned how to do at Stoney; idle hands and all that, even though I technically don’t have a drug problem) and then pay. I turn to go. Before I’m free of this awkward situation, the guy snags the cuff of my blouse, pulling me to a stop.
“Hold up,” he says. He nods his head toward the first clear table off from the register.
Confused but curious, I furrow my brow and follow him to the table.
I watch as he sets down his tray
and takes a plastic fork to cut through the cake. He slices it in half, or as close to half as he can make it, then places the larger piece on my plate next to the soppy mashed potatoes (which also happen to remind me of Stoney). I really can’t wait until I feel completely free of that place…
Giving my head another hard shake, I clear my tangled thoughts. “Um, thanks,” I say. “But really. It’s just cake.”
“You’re clearly new, right? The carrot cake is the only reason anyone actually eats here.” A slow smile curls his lips, causing my chest to flutter. “Hence why there’s only one piece left. Try it,” he adds, nodding toward my half, that smile touching his lips.
God, but he’s beautiful. I have a weakness for beautiful boys—beautiful boys with superior attitudes that leave me in defeated piles of shame and regret. No. No, not this time.
I can’t come undone.
I contemplate this and look down at my tray. I might be overreacting. I mean, he might just be trying to give me some cake. And he’s the second person at my new college to actually talk to me, besides my professors and random students asking about assignments. And the way he looked at me in the line…right into my eyes. It just about stopped my heart.
But then, as I’m really, truly considering him, he says, “Are you a freshman? I mean, did you transfer here or…do you live around here?”
I’m having a difficult time figuring out which of his questions to answer first. “Um, junior, and I transferred here. And no, don’t live here. Well, I guess I do now.”
He’s staring at me so intently, as if he’s trying to connect my words to something, that my stomach does a weird dip. My skin flushes with heat, sending a buzz to my head.
“You don’t have any family, say, a few towns over?”
What? I shake my head. “Nope. Not that I know of…” I trail off, hoping he’ll elaborate. This is getting awkward fast. “Oh. Well actually, my parents just bought a house in Wisteria.” But they own houses all over the country. I don’t voice this, however.
“Huh.” Slowly, he licks the remnants of cream icing off his finger. And not in a way that’s at all innocent.
His blue eyes roam over my body, lingering, invasive. His tongue swirls around the tip of his finger while his gaze practically peels away my clothes, sending a warm trill through my belly. It’s ridiculous. And then, because of how cliché it all is, and how lightheaded I suddenly feel, I laugh. Full-on, crazy woman laugh. He did not just try that lame move on me, did he?
“I’m sorry,” I say, waving my hand that’s not clutching the tray. “Thanks for the cake. But I need to go.”
Another laugh barrels from my mouth at the absurdity. I should’ve put it together before; the broad shoulders, muscles, cocky demeanor, entitlement (over a piece of cake!). I have a good bit of experience with his type, and I promised myself never again.
This guy can only be a jock.
2
Ryder
I’ve been launched into the past.
When this girl turned and spoke to me—it was like déjà vu. Like I was seeing a ghost. And maybe that’s why my brain isn’t sending the proper signals to my mouth, and I’m saying the dumbest shit. For one brief, terrifying moment, I thought she was Alyssa.
But she’s not. And I quickly realized that. It’s impossible. But I just can’t stop staring at her; she reminds me so much of the girl that plagued me—that still plagues me. Right when her big amber eyes met mine, I felt like I’d been slapped.
Just the way Alyssa slapped me; palm against face.