“You’re nervous around me, then.” He wets his lips, the act nearly stopping my heart. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“No,” I retort, praying to every God in existence that he can’t see the lie I’m miserably failing at trying to hide. “I’m not nervous around you.”
“Yes, you are, but it’s sexy as fuck, so it’s all good.” Brock leans forward, fastening his eyes to mine. “So what’s your real name . . . Ber?”
I sigh, another whisper clogging my throat. “Amber. Amber Moretti.”
“Amber,” he repeats, tasting my name on his tongue. I like the way he says it. “Well, Am . . . ber, I know my asshole friend might’ve dampened your day, but I plan to make up for his lack of couth, if you’d let me.”
Hooked.
Yeah. I feel like a helpless fish out of water, hooked by a hungry angler. At the same time, I feel like a giddy schoolgirl as a spark of excitement bubbles in my stomach, and to be honest, it makes my skin crawl.
Just like faith, love is another misconception held by those who believe in fairy tales. Fairy tales don’t exist; neither do knights on white horses. In my honest opinion, every book princess in history was a stupid, naïve twit.
I can’t deny that I want to be touched by love so I can feel something . . . anything. But the reality of what love ultimately ends up like screams loudly in my ears, its warning seeded deep within my numb, hollow heart. I open my mouth to tell Brock Cunningham he can take his white horse and fake suit of armor and ride off into the sunset with some other dumb chick who will fall for his future lies and bullshit promises, but he speaks before the words hit my jaded lips.
“Besides, I think it’d be cool watching reruns of Happy Days with you.”
I snap my mouth shut as he casts me a shy smile, his green eyes zoned in on mine with nothing but warmth behind them. “That is,” he adds, “if you promise to sing that weird melody while we get amped up on too many Red Bulls and nauseate ourselves with disgusting amounts of popcorn.” The smile drops from his lips, sincerity replacing it. “But you also have to tell me the secrets those gorgeous eyes are attempting to hide from the world.”
It’s here, on the first day of my freshman year of college, that I’m aware a fork in the road of my life has reared its ugly head.
Part of me wants to hoist myself up onto Brock Cunningham’s white horse, wrap my hesitant arms around his suit of armor, and maybe, just maybe, start to feel something. But the other part wants to jet, running as far away from him as humanly possible.
I mull it over and decide that I’m up for playing the role of a naïve princess, but I’m not about to make Prince Charming’s battle an easy one. “You talk a good game,” I say. “But it’s going to take a lot more than a few pickup lines to get into my head.”
He crosses his arms. “A challenge?”
“Yes, a challenge,” I toss back, my face devoid of emotion. I’m sure that alone will scare him off. Emotionless girls aren’t appealing to guys. They want sugary sweet; I’m piss and vinegar.
He watches me carefully, his face anything but emotionless. Intrigue lines his forehead, debate hindering his response.
Yep. He’s outta here.
“Challenge accepted,” he says, shocking me some.
Actually, he comes close to shocking me right out of my seat. I thought for sure he was a runner.
“But you have to tell me a few things before I let you fuck up my head,” he says.
“Fuck up your head?” I scoff, deciding this is a failed effort at being swoony. The wounded guy who needs to be fixed. Most chicks fall for that fluff.
“Yeah, fuck up my head. You girls seem to think we’re the only ones capable of doing it, but it’s a fifty-fifty playing field.”
I’m convinced he’s handing me bullshit. Still, I go with it. “Okay, so your heart’s been broken. Whose hasn’t been?”
“Has yours?” His eyes soften. “I’m not sure, but something’s telling me that it has, or some kind of shit’s happened to you to stop you from ever opening up. It’s one or the other.”
Who is this guy? A mind reader?
The truth is my parents’ wicked excuse of a marriage left me chained, bound to the anger that’s blossomed over the years. Their union—or lack thereof—poisoned me, soiling my spirit. It made me a hater of love, never once allowing anyone to step into what’s left of my world.
But that doesn’t mean my heart hasn’t been shattered. It’s been hacked to pieces in ways the average person can’t fathom. Trembling on a blood-soaked carpet, I cried more tears than most people purge over a lifetime.
Still, I’m sure my past isn’t stamped across my forehead. I’ve hidden it well, masking it under a bravado most take years to master. Well, up until this point, I thought I did a good job of hiding it. “That question’s a no-go,” I say, firm on not letting him in on too much. “You can ask me anything else, but nothing that has to do with what my heart has or hasn’t been through.”
“That’s cool for now.” Brock leans back, brushing a hand through his hair. “Can I get your favorite color, then?”
Simple enough. “Green.”
“Florida or Montana?” he continues.
“I can’t stand the beach, and cowboys don’t do a thing for me, so neither.”
“Well, young lady,” he says, deepening what I already consider a Southern drawl, “I don’t own a ranch, but I’d take a spicy little snow bunny over fake implants any day.”