“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.”
His response strikes me as odd, but I can’t help but laugh. He doesn’t fit the mold. I like it.
“Flowers or chocolates?”
“Are you aiming for clichéd?”
“Mental note taken.” He nods, acting as if he’s writing this down. “Spiked heels or dirty sneakers?”
I look down at my three-year-old, seen-better-days Chucks. “Uh, sneakers.” The answer should be obvious considering I’m also sporting Walmart-brand jeans and a faded vintage Nirvana T-shirt.
Brock studies me a moment. “That’s the response I was hoping for. I dig different.”
I feel red paint my cheeks in a flush as his gaze stays locked on mine.
As if sensing my nervousness, he clears his throat. “First number that pops into your head?”
“Sixteen.”
“Beer or hard liquor?”
I roll my eyes. “Duh . . . both.”
He chuckles. “A Perfect Circle or Coldplay?”
“Polar opposites. They’re both awesome bands. Plus, that’s like choosing your favorite book boyfriend. You can’t.”
“Agreed, but I have no idea what a book boyfriend is. You’ve sparked my curiosity, though.”
I smile, not even about to go into detail of their importance to the hordes of women who compare them to every male on earth. “We need a full day for that topic.”
“Got ya.” He laughs, rubbing his hands together. “Vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry?”
“All three combined into one magnificent flavor.”
“A walk in the park or a day spent riding on the back of a motorcycle?”
“Have you heard of Deuce West?”
He gives me a confused look.
I smile again. “Definitely a day spent on the back of a motorcycle.”
“Very cool,” he replies. “Summer or winter?”
“Winter. I hate the heat.”
“Christmas or Thanksgiving?”
“I’ll take a turkey over a fat man wearing red any day.” That garners me a smile.
“Favorite sexual position?”
Sneaky. I like. I almost spill that any position—in any public or private place—is just fine by me, but I stick to innocence and widen my eyes.
“I figured I’d try,” he admits with a smirk. “Favorite food?”
“Sushi.”
He crinkles his nose.
“For real?” I ask, rocked that any human in their right mind wouldn’t want to consume it every da
y. “You don’t like sushi?”
“I only like certain . . . female things raw.” He wiggles his brows.
“Hardy-har-har,” I tease, giving him a look that tells him I know exactly what he’s referring to.
Pussy—not money—is the root of all evil.
“You’re quick.” He swings his chair around to my side of the table, straddles it, and rests his forearms on the back as he stares at me with laser-like precision. “Football or baseball?”
“Baseball all the way. Football sucks.”
His eyes widen, a frown dragging down his mouth. He looks like a lost, lonely puppy.
“What’s wrong?” I’m somewhat disturbed by the sudden change in his demeanor. “Are you an overwired, crazed football fanatic or something?”
“Captain.”
“Huh?” Now it’s my eyes that are wide. “Oh God. Not a jock. Please don’t tell me you’re a jock.”
Considering he’s sporting a polo shirt and Dockers, he doesn’t dress like a jock. He looks preppy and unjuiced by steroids. Okay, so he’s built like a jock—broad, sculpted shoulders, pumped yet lean forearms. I crane my neck and peek at his stomach, confirming that under his polo shirt exists a six-pack slab of raw muscle. Still, he could’ve gained his glorious physique by lifting weights, lifting tiny girls with fake implants, or lifting cars on impulse.
But, Jesus, not a jock.
Brock nods, a dot of a grin hinting at his lips. “I’m the university’s football captain. Does that kill any hope I’d had?”
“It comes close to it.” I nervously pick at the edge of my schedule. “Really close. Like borderline-walk-away-now close.”
Curiosity slants his brows. “And why is that?”
“It just is. But whatever. I can deal with it if you give me enough reasons to.” My thoughts travel back to the night I all but sold my virginity on a muddy high school football field to a dick named Josh Stevenson. I was fourteen and wanted beer. He was seventeen and had a fake ID.
A deal was struck.
Thank God the whole, sickening ordeal lasted less than five minutes. I guess I’d expected him to treat me like the whore I’d acted like, and that’s exactly what happened. By the next morning the rest of his teammates knew what we’d done, making sure to call me the appropriate names every time they saw me.
In a small fishing community just outside of Rivers Edge, North Carolina, I was the new girl known as the slut who’d fucked the captain of the football team for beer. I can’t recall if it was the second or third town I’d lived in by that point—I just know it as the one where my hatred of jocks, and my self-loathing for what I was morphing into, began.
I shift, uncomfortable with Brock looking at me like he’s trying to figure me out. “What?”
“I’m just happy you’re willing to tolerate me and my . . . jockiness.” He slides me a grin. “And I will give you enough reasons to deal with it.”
I sense that he wants to say something more, possibly deeper, but I don’t push.
“Okay, so you’re stuck alone on a deserted island,” he continues, “and you can only have two things other than water. What are they?”
“That’s easy. Twizzlers and my journal,” I answer, wishing I had both right now. Mainly the Twizzlers. They’re one of my many crutches. My nervous, go-to addiction. Any flavor—the almighty Twizzler owns me.
“Twizzlers?” He looks at me like I’m the worst kind of crazy. “The squiggly licorice candy? Out of anything in the world, that’s what you’d go with?”
“You’re quick,” I smart back, shooting him my best amused expression. “Very quick, Cunningham.”
A hint of inner debate settles across his face, but soon confidence replaces it. “Well, since we’re two quick young adults, and we’re both in mutual agreement that Ryder’s the asshole of the goddamn universe, I’m wondering how soon I can get you to go out on a date with me?”
“You have to work harder for an actual date.” Though my words come out with conviction, even I can hear the doubt behind them. My conscience is bugging, asking what the hell’s wrong with me. “Again, it’s going to take work on your part.”
Brock nods, extending his hand to me. After a beat, I take it, not sure where he’s going with this.
Eyes on mine, he gently circles his thumb over my knuckles. “I’m gonna work my ass off to get you to go out on a date with me. But I’m warning you now, no matter what I have to do, I will get into your beautiful head, Amber-Ber.” He cracks a smile. “More than I already have. You’ll see.”
Before I can blink, he brings my hand to his lips and plants a soft kiss on it. I shiver in the best way possible, his light stubble causing my flesh to pop with goose bumps. He smiles, but without another word, he rises and walks clear across the dining hall and out the doors.
With my pulse knocking around like a Ping-Pong ball, I’m left not only speechless but wondering if Brock Cunningham can do what no one else has ever managed.
Slide past every defense I’ve created.
CHAPTER 2
Amber
“YOU NEED INTRO to Biology, Miss Moretti,” the woman in the registrar’s office informs me.
“I didn’t think I needed that class,” I say, frustration knotting my chest. “If I have to take it, it’ll put me behind a whole semester.”
“Your academic program calls for it. I’m not sure what else to tell you.” She shoves her glasses up the thin bridge of her nose, eyeing the impatient, growing line of students behind me. “Make an appointment with an academic advisor if need be, but there’s nothing more I can do for you.”
Beyond annoyed, I hitch my satchel over my shoulder and turn, running headlong into the god of arrogance himself.
Ryder Ashcroft.
Though I’m struck stupid by the sharp planes of his face, the hint of stubble dusting his jaw, and the smirk he’s wearing, I roll my eyes toward the heavens and attempt to brush past him. When I do, he moves in tandem with me, blocking my path. A second attempt at an exit on my part, followed by a second blocking on his, and I feel myself starting to fume.
“Seriously, Ryder? What’s your problem?”
“You’re my problem.” His smirk pulls higher. “It’s been a few days since we’ve seen each other. Did ya miss me?”
“No,” I say in all honesty. Can I deny that the last forty-eight hours consisted of me repeatedly hitting the replay button on our kiss, or that I have a gnawing urge to tunnel my fingers through his thick, dark hair? Nope. I can’t deny any of that. But still, I haven’t missed him.
“You’re lying,” he says, finally letting me past him.
“And you’re annoying.”
He follows me out of the office and down the crowded hall. “I may be, but you’re gorgeous and annoying. That’s one helluva lethal blend.”
I stop and spin on him, my eyes saucers. “I’m annoying?”
“Yeah. You fucking drive me crazy.” He shrugs, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “Nuts out of my mind.”
I blink, completely taken aback. “I drive you crazy? How is that even possible?”
He grins and steps closer, his chest nearly pressed to mine. I draw in a sharp breath, my pulse thudding as I try to ignore the bolt of energy between us.
“It’s very possible, and there you go again with your cute questions.” He reaches for a strand of my hair, leans down, and sniffs it before whispering, “Mm. Raspberry.”
“Wh . . . what?” I stammer. Lost to the sound of blood speeding through my veins, the buzz of the loud conversations throughout the hall goes mute.
“Your shampoo.” He twirls my hair between his fingers, and steps back, his gaze slowly moving over me. “It smells like raspberries. I like it. It’s just a little piece of you that drives me nuts. Never mind your pissed-off pouty lips or badass sexy attitude. I won’t go i
nto what either of those things do to me, but I’m sure ya have an idea. You were sitting in my lap the other day. I’m positive you . . . felt what that did to me.”
There’s no doubt my body reacts to him in disturbing yet delicious stages. My heart comes close to stopping, arrested by the sound of his deep, raspy voice. Then my breathing picks up from the heated look in his translucent blue eyes. And last, but certainly not least, my head shits visions of animalistic, sheet-clawing fucking as he runs his pierced tongue over his lips.
“Did you say something?” I ask, honestly trying to remember.
“Your shampoo,” he says, somewhat puzzled. “It smells like raspberries.” A smile crinkles his eyes. “I . . . lost ya after that, didn’t I?”
Yes. He. Did.
Somewhere between him mentioning the smell of my hair and some shit about my eyes, I fell into a woodsy-cologned-Ryder-induced fog, my head warped in a matter of seconds. Hating that he knows how much he gets to me, I smile wryly. “Look, I’m sure you have hordes of girls who willingly spread-eagle for you on your command, but it’s not happening with me, buddy.”
“It’s Ryder,” he deadpans. “And believe me, we will happen.”
“I know your name.” I sigh. “And we won’t happen.”
With a chuckle, Ryder trails me as I try to locate the hall that’ll lead me to my bullshit Intro to Biology class.
“Besides,” I go on, shouldering my way through the crush of students, “I’m sure the blonde who so eagerly replaced my spot in your lap will slice your balls off—machete-style—once she finds out you’re trying to hook up with me.”
“Blondie watched me kiss you, and my balls are still intact, so if that doesn’t tell you she’s a hit-and-run kind of thing, I’m not sure what will.”
I mentally slap myself. He has me slightly irritated and beyond sexually frustrated, and because of that, I failed to remember that mammoth detail.
“And was that . . . jealousy in your tone?” he adds, his tone beyond wiseass.
I stop outside of the classroom, turn around, and find Ryder with his hand cupped behind his ear.