They're flirting. And with a line of people to witness. Flirting and oblivious to my death stare of impatience, though it should be strong enough to burn a hole into the back of this guy's neck.
The person behind me shifts their footing. I sense it more than I hear the ruffle of fabric. I do the same, and my hand lands on my hip, where a finger taps to the same rhythm as my foot.
"Maybe you should make that two cappuccinos," he adds. "Assuming you'll have one with me later."
She laughs before remembering, by some grace of God, that she's working, and finally rings up his order.
"Name?" she asks, pen in one hand and cup in the other.
"Giles. And what's your name?"
I lean in beside the guy just as he finishes his question in order to ask my own. "Can we move this along? Some of us are in a hurry."
The barista nods, blushing, and the guy turns to face me. There's an innate playfulness in the way his eyebrows lower, like he's squinting slightly. A flicker of recognition flashes in his pale green eyes, which meet my own for a few seconds before darting down the center of my V-neck shirt.
Is he for real?
"Are you looking for something?" I snap, resisting the urge to cover my chest with my hands.
I'm by no means showing any cleavage to warrant his gawking. I hate the familiar discomfort of a stranger's indiscriminate eyeballing.
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
THE 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."