Apparently, on the day I saw a pretty blonde girl sitting up on a rock.
I jog up the street for a few minutes and then take the path off to the walkway to take me to the beach. It brings me out about three hundred yards away from Evie.
Game time, Gunner.
Feet hitting the sand, I begin jogging toward her.
The closer I get, the faster my heart starts to beat. And it has nothing to do with the exercise because I’ve barely even begun running.
It’s because of her.
What is it about this girl that has me in all kinds of knots? How can I feel so nervous over a girl I’ve never even spoken to?
She hasn’t noticed me yet. I keep my eyes on her throughout my approach.
She has the tip of the pencil pressed to her lower lip as she stares down at her sketchpad, a frown marring her forehead.
Not that far from her now, I slow my pace, coming to a stop a few feet away from her, under the pretense that I need to stop to catch my breath.
Facing the ocean, I take a drink of water from my bottle.
I slide a glance in her direction.
She still isn’t looking at me.
And just as I think it, she looks straight at me, her eyes meeting mine. I freeze.
Holy fuck, she’s stunning.
Way prettier than I first thought. My initial take on her did not do her justice because, up close, she’s beautiful. And I know beauty. I’ve been surrounded by it my whole life.
But her face…nothing compares.
She has the most amazing eyes. Captivating. They’re the color of whiskey, huge and shaped like almonds, and they are set in the most perfect face I have ever seen. Heart-shaped with a cute button nose and full lips.
In this moment, her face has literally become the center of my universe. I can’t stop staring at her.
And that’s probably why she says to me, “Um…are you okay?”
I blink myself free, realizing what a fucking idiot I must look like.
Way to make a first impression, dickface.
“Are you an artist?” I point a finger up at her sketchpad.
Then, I have to stop my own hand from punching me in the face at my lameness. That’s my opener? Wow, I just keep getting better and better.
Thy name is Adam, and I am a fucking loser.
A smile tips up her lips, and she pushes her pencil into the top of her ponytail. “Do you think you have to actually sell a drawing to be able to call yourself an artist?”
“I’m not sure.” I shrug, my eyes going straight back to her face. It’s kind of hard not to stare. She’s that beautiful.
“Well, if you do, then no, I’m not an artist.”
“Do you want to be one?”
She ponders this for a moment, her teeth biting down on that plump lower lip of hers, and I imagine my own teeth doing the exact same thing.
Her eyes come back to mine with an unexpected and surprising intensity in them. “Yes.”
For a second there, I feel like she’s saying yes to something else. Maybe she’s agreeing to the movie reel of dirty thoughts going through my mind right now—me and her, naked and sweaty and tangled up in my bedsheets.
No, that’s just my wishful thinking.
The thought of sex with her has my confidence finally making his late appearance.
I don’t know why, but thinking about sex while talking to a girl always lifts my game. I’m weird like that.
I tip my head to the side, folding my arms over my chest. “Maybe I could buy one of your drawings, and then you could officially call yourself an artist.”
She arches a perfectly formed brow. “You’d buy a drawing from me when you haven’t even seen any of my work?”
“I would.”
“And why would you do that?”
I give a lazy shrug. “Because I can.”