Fade Out (The Morganville Vampires #7)(3)
“Thumb wrestle you for it.”
The deep voice makes me jump, and I’m quickly pulled out of my rapid-cycling thoughts. “I’m sorry,” I say, turning to see the guy behind me in line. “You can have…it…” My words trail off slowly as my gaze lands on his chest and I’m forced to angle my head back to find his face.
He’s built like a freaking brick house. His wide-set shoulders squared, muscular arms easily defined beneath a white-ribbed thermal. He holds a red tray before his tautly muscled stomach. I can tell, because the fitted thermal showcases each indent and bulge, outlining his clearly defined abs.
When I reach his eyes—clear, glacier blue—they’re squinted, crinkling at the edges, matching his ear-to-ear grin. He’s so massive; I suddenly fear he’ll plow right through me on his mission to get the last piece of carrot cake; that he doesn’t even see me. But then I recall, with a stupid shake of my head, that he just spoke to me.
What did he say again?
“Oh, I know I can have it. The kitchen makes the cake specially for me, but I was giving you a fighting chance.” He smiles, revealing straight, white teeth. “I think you could take me,” he adds, craning one deep brown eyebrow. “Don’t give in so easily, shorty.”
Shaking my head again, I focus on what I said before I lost my train of thought while checking him out. Right, carrot cake. The last piece. As I’m still standing here, dumbfounded, the person directly behind us huffs and moves around to jump ahead in line.
Now the guy raises both eyebrows, trying to prompt some response from me. And this is what happens when I skip meals. All loss of brainpower. But then his cocky smile collides with his conceited words, pulling me out of my stupor. Did he really just call me shorty?
“Wait. The kitchen makes it for you?” I’m not even a fan of carrot cake, really. I just have a sugar craving to sate—but this guy’s superior attitude makes me determined he’s not getting that last piece. I turn and nod toward the display glass. “The carrot cake, please.” Then I begin to push my tray along the metal bars, trying to focus my gaze on anything but him, completely—and annoyingly—aware of his proximity as he follows too close behind.
“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.