If We Ever Meet Again - Ana Huang Page 0,3
that could cut ice. He wasn’t Farrah’s type, but she had to admit the boy was fire. Blake looked the way she’d pictured Apollo looking when she learned about Greek mythology in seventh grade.
“Well, you’re really hard.” The words slipped out before Farrah could catch them.
I did not just say that out loud.
The flush traveled from her face to the rest of her body. No matter how hard she prayed, the floor didn’t open up and swallow her whole, that bastard.
Blake’s other eyebrow shot up.
“I mean, your chest is really hard. Nothing else. Although I’m sure it could be hard if it wanted to.”
Kill me.
The hint of amusement blossomed into a full-fledged grin, revealing twin dimples that should be classified as lethal weapons.
“It sure can,” Blake drawled. “Especially when I’m around someone as beautiful as you.”
Farrah’s mortification screeched to a halt. “Oh, please. Do they actually work for you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your cheesy pickup lines. Do they actually work for you?”
“I’ve never had any complaints. Besides, look at me.” Blake gestured at himself. “I don’t need pickup lines.”
“Wow.” Farrah shook her head. Typical jock. “It must be difficult walking around with such a big head.”
“Babe, that’s not the only part of me that’s big.”
Farrah couldn’t help it; her eyes dropped to the region below Blake’s belt. An image of what hid behind the denim flashed through her mind’s eye. Her mouth went dry.
“I’m talking about my chest, of course.” Blake shook with laughter.
Farrah’s gaze snapped up to his face. “I knew that.” The mortification crept back up her neck.
“Sure. Since you’ve already undressed me with your eyes, we should—”
“I did not undress you—”
“Properly introduce ourselves.” He held out his hand. “I’m Blake.”
She knew who he was, and they both knew it. Farrah played along because 1) her mother raised her to be a polite human being; and 2) while she knew his name, there was every chance he didn’t know hers. They’d met briefly at orientation dinner the first night but there were seventy students in FEA. Farrah herself couldn’t remember the names of half the people she met. “I’m Farrah.”
She slid the handle of her plastic bag onto her other wrist so she could grasp his hand. His palms were warm and rough against hers. When they made contact, a tiny, unexpected shock sizzled through her veins.
“Farrah from California.”
She couldn’t have been more surprised if he started reciting The Iliad in ancient Greek. “You remember.”
“How could I forget?” Blake’s gaze swept over her face and lingered on her mouth.
Farrah’s heart rate kicked up a notch. He was the opposite of her ideal romantic hero—tall, dark, and handsome, with a side of sensitive, cultured, and well-read—but there was no denying Blake’s sex appeal. It dripped from him like honey from a hive.
“So we didn’t need to introduce ourselves.”
“No.” He stepped closer without releasing her hand. “But I wanted an excuse to touch you.”
No, Blake wasn’t her type, but any girl in the world would melt under the heat of his gaze. Farrah hated to admit it, but she was no exception.
She’d be damned if she showed it, though.
While she struggled to come up with a witty rejoinder, Blake lowered his head to whisper in her ear. “Still think my pickup lines are cheesy?”
Farrah yanked her hand out of his and ignored his laughter. The deep, velvety sound rolled through the empty stairwell, filling it with its richness.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster. “You’re not as hot as you think you are.” Lies. “There are plenty of guys as good-looking as you.”
“Aha! So you think I’m good-looking.”
Dammit. “Only from a physical point of view.”
“Er, that’s what good-looking means.”
“I have more important things to do than stand here and argue with you. So if—”
“Like read depressing-ass novels?” Blake nodded at the bag in her hands. The cover of The Notebook showed clear as day through the thin red plastic.
“I don’t expect you to understand, but this is a great love story,” Farrah huffed.
“Hey, whatever floats your boat. I don’t have anything against love stories. Plus, if you’re looking for something to do besides argue with me, I have a few ideas.” Suggestiveness dripped from his voice. “You, me, my room. A great love story.”
Farrah snorted. “Not even in your dreams. You’re not my type.”
“I’m everyone’s type.”
Farrah didn’t bother to dignify his arrogance with a response. She brushed past him and stalked up the stairs. “I hope you and your ego have a good