The Club Sin Series 4-Book Bundle (86 page)

That's when I take a step back and look at him, really look at him. Except for his dark hair, he's the quintessential California surf bum. Bright blue Hurley T-shirt. Quiksilver board shorts with wide, color-blocked stripes in red, orange, yellow, and blue. Tan leather flip-flops. Gorgeous face. Dark stubble on his chin. Too-long hair flopping in his eyes. Even the hint of a tattoo peeking out from under the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt. Totally not the kind of guy I would normally go for.

And yet there's something familiar about him. And also something that intrigues me. That makes me want to yield to him when I don't normally yield to anyone. For a moment, just a moment, I think about picking up that stupid purple shake and drinking it. I'm running out of time, after all, and the afternoon will drag by if I don't eat something.

I could just walk away, grab a sandwich and some fruit from one of the coolers, and eat it on my way back to Building Three. But that feels too much like retreat, something that I suddenly realize would disappoint us both.

Which means we're at a stalemate. Him insisting I try something new. Me insisting I'm fine with the tried and true. It's a stupid fight to have, especially with a stranger, but the look in his eyes can't be denied. We both know there's more going on here than a battle over a stupid drink

I can't believe I'm going to do it, can't believe that after all this fuss I'm going to take a sip of that damn smoothie, but I am. I reach for it, am compelled to reach for it by the look in his eyes and the sudden tension in his body. But as my hand closes around the cup, my stomach growls. Loudly.

It breaks the spell and I flush in embarrassment. So much for first-day nerves. A tangle with the juice bar guy and suddenly my appetite is back with a vengeance.

“You're hungry,” he says. His voice is colored with a sudden regret I don't understand.

“It's lunchtime. That's my lunch.”

The next thing I know, he's back at the blender, loading it with cut-up bananas and an extra-large serving of strawberries—definitely more than seven. He adds a large scoop of protein powder, then sherbet and juice.

Moments later, an extra-large Hawaiian Sunrise smoothie appears in front of me.

I'm confused. Uncertain, suddenly, though I don't know why. I like to win. It's kind of an obsession with me, so I should be happy that he backed down so unexpectedly. Except I'm not, because winning like this feels strangely like losing.

Under his watchful gaze, I reach for my smoothie. But at the last second—don't ask me why because I don't have a clue—I grab his instead. Take a long sip. Then place the cup back down on the counter.

Then I gather up my smoothie and turn away without glancing at him again. I can't. I'm too unsettled by what just happened. By what I just did and why I did it.

I've only gone a few steps, though, when he calls after me. “Hey!”

I turn back, even though I tell myself not to. “Yes?”

“What did you think? Of the Ethan Special?”

“Exactly what I thought I would. It's disgusting.”

He rears back in surprise. “Disgusting? Really?”

“Really. I hate blueberries.”

He doesn't say another word, but then again, neither do I. Still, the question hangs between us. If I really hate blueberries so much, why did I drink his smoothie when he'd already given me what I ordered?

I don't know the answer to that question, but as I walk away, I can feel his eyes on me. And somehow I'm certain that until I do know, until I understand, things will never be the same for me again.