Chapter One

Julia

IF GIVEN THE CHOICE, I would've wanted my life to remain comfortable, private, and predictable. I would still be living with my parents in Newport Beach, just minutes from the Pacific Ocean and an hour-and-a-half drive from San Diego. But there's something to be said about the unexpected, when the rug is pulled out from under you and you're forced to see the world in new angles. 

That's what happened to me and I didn't like what I saw. I saw the people I trusted betray me. Disbelief and suspicion lingered in the eyes of people I never thought would question me, or my morals. I burned bridges I might someday need to cross again, just to be able to head off in a brand new direction. Not because I wanted to, but because I saw no other choice.

I walk along the empty sidewalk, concrete and storefronts evenly lit by the overcast sky. Dark strands of hair go wild around my face with the sweep of a sudden breeze, forcing me to smooth them down with the palm of my hand. My walking pace inadvertently slows once I'm in front of a coffee shop. 

I'm too aware of how the morning air fills me, stirring the emptiness in the pit of my stomach. A feeling I decide is hunger, even while I know it's more likely nerves. Hunger is easier to fix. And, anyway, hunger is a possible explanation since I've yet to have breakfast. 

I check the time and realize I still have eighteen minutes before I have to meet with my new roommates to sign the lease. The house is just down the street from this very spot. I hadn't noticed I was already so close to arriving, only two or three more minutes of walking at the most. The realization makes my palms grow sweaty.  

I've been so busy worrying about whether I'll like my new roommates that I've forgotten I need to make a good impression on them as well. What if they decide I'm not the right fit? I'll be left to look for another room to rent, which would also mean more awkward, tension-filled days at my uncle's house. 

Deciding I've got the time to spare, I push open the coffee shop door and stroll inside. The air-conditioned air carries the scent of sugar and cinnamon and coffee beans. I exhale and take my spot in the line of eight other people, confident it will move fast enough that I'll be able to grab a cup of mocha and make it to the house by ten.

It only takes me a few seconds to make a mental note of which pastry I'll be ordering with my drink. But it soon becomes apparent I'll be waiting a while before I can actually order it. The line moves frustratingly slow. There's only one girl behind the counter. She takes two orders at a time before ducking behind the machines to make the drinks, leaving the rest of us in line shifting from the awkward proximity to strangers. 

I'm shifting for different reasons. For starters, I've realized that maybe the empty feeling in my stomach really is a hunger the nerves were masking. Last night, after class, I rushed to my uncle's guest room to avoid another tense interaction with his wife. I knew from early on in the day that she was in a bad mood, her passive aggressive comments amped up a few degrees higher than usual. 

Soon I'll be away from the disapproving glares my aunt throws my way whenever she thinks I'm not watching. I'm not really sure how much she knows about what happened, but the way she looks at me is enough to suggest she's made up her mind about the events, just like everyone else did back home.

I'm looking forward to giving my uncle the definitive news that I've found a place to live. I've already met one of my roommates. Ava's a tall, strawberry blonde with an infectious smile. I liked her the moment I laid eyes on her. She has a way about her that puts me at ease. There was a second girl, who I also liked, but she backed out of moving in earlier this week. Ava sent a message two days ago letting me know her cousin will take the spot. And even though I'm a little nervous that Ava's cousin might turn out to be a fire-breathing female dragon, I know I'll have to find a way to make it work, regardless.

The longer I stare at the pastry in the glass case, the more committed I am to wait in line to get it. Every so often, I check my watch again to make sure I'm not cutting it too close. Being late wouldn't send a great message.

The line crawls forward until there's just one person in front of me, a tall guy with light brown hair. Behind the counter stands a pretty, blonde barista, her hair braided off to the side. 

"Good morning," she says, perking up quite visibly when the guy in front of me walks up to the counter. 

Though I can't see his face, I imagine his expression is friendly, maybe even encouraging, judging by her face. Her grin seems to go well beyond the polite smile afforded to the other customers.

"Morning," he replies, voice velvet and gravel all at once. "I'll have a medium cappuccino."

She tilts her head and lifts a hand to her mouth. "Wait. Where do I know you from?"

"I'm not sure," he says, drumming his fingers on the counter as though in contemplation.

They seriously just stare at each other for at least three seconds, which may not seem like that long of a time, but it is when there's a line of people behind him and all that's required of him is his order.

I let out a loud breath and tap my right foot to a slow rhythm. I have seven minutes to grab my drink and eat my pastry on the walk to the house.

"I think you're in my economics class," the barista offers, with a sudden bout of recollection that rings false. She's pretending she didn't immediately know who he was.

"That could be it." 

She glances at the register but I doubt she remembers what it's for because she's yet to ring up his order. Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ear and says, "Hey, that final is supposed to be a killer, there's an opening in my study group if you want to join."

Right. I bet that study group consists of her and her vagina.

"Sounds interesting. I might take you up on that," the guy says, a smile evident in his tone. A smile the barista returns as she bites her lip coyly and glances down again.

They're flirting. And with a line of people to witness. Flirting and oblivious to my death stare of impatience, though it should be strong enough to burn a hole into the back of this guy's neck. 

The person behind me shifts their footing. I sense it more than I hear the ruffle of fabric. I do the same, and my hand lands on my hip, where a finger taps to the same rhythm as my foot.

"Maybe you should make that two cappuccinos," he adds. "Assuming you'll have one with me later." 

She laughs before remembering, by some grace of God, that she's working, and finally rings up his order.

"Name?" she asks, pen in one hand and cup in the other.

"Giles. And what's your name?"

I lean in beside the guy just as he finishes his question in order to ask my own. "Can we move this along? Some of us are in a hurry."

The barista nods, blushing, and the guy turns to face me. There's an innate playfulness in the way his eyebrows lower, like he's squinting slightly. A flicker of recognition flashes in his pale green eyes, which meet my own for a few seconds before darting down the center of my V-neck shirt.  

Is he for real? 

"Are you looking for something?" I snap, resisting the urge to cover my chest with my hands. 

I'm by no means showing any cleavage to warrant his gawking. I hate the familiar discomfort of a stranger's indiscriminate eyeballing. 

I've been subjected to enough of that lately.

He goes to say something but then seems to resist. Instead, he scrunches his mouth up in the universal gesture for 'not bad' before turning to make his way to the other end of the counter.

I glower after him so long I forget I'm holding up the line, as well. After I order, I have no choice but to walk over to where that guy stands with his eyes fixed squarely on the barista as she prepares our drinks. 

There's something about his demeanor that gives me the impression, for a split second, that maybe he's my type. 

He's not. It's just a trick of the ovaries.

His posture is so relaxed, shoulders angled downward, shirt hugging the curve of his chest before swooping down over an abdomen I'm sure is as firm as the rest of him seems.

And...why am I even imagining that? There's no need for that image to pop into my head. Just like there's no need for me to take note of his hands in his pockets, thumbs pointing toward the crotch of his pants.

"Are you looking for something?"

My eyes snap up at his question, only to be met by smug satisfaction.

"Yeah, you wish," I say, turning away from him to stare straight ahead.

"Yeah...yeah, I do." And though he says it low, it's obvious he wants me to hear. I pretend not to. 

Every pore of my skin is hyper-aware of standing there beside him. And like I always do when I feel self-conscious, I pull my shoulders back and pretend the opposite. Because this guy oozes egotistical womanizer vibes, and I've learned to not shrink around those types, to never show them weakness.

"You go to school here?" he asks after a moment.

We're on the last week of classes and I don't remember ever seeing this guy around campus--which isn't surprising since it's a pretty big campus--but I have the sudden fear he's been sitting behind me in one of my psychology classes all semester without me noticing. Except that's pretty unlikely. Male psych majors tend to stick out like a sore thumb, at least in my classes.

My gaze flicks to him. "Are you seriously trying to make small talk with me?"

"Yeah?" His head tilts and I inadvertently catch how the lighting overhead brings out a coppery hue to his hair that complements his lightly bronzed skin. I mean, barely bronzed. Very, very lightly bronzed. Whatever, I'm sure he'll be paler than a bowl of rice the instant summer ends.

I decide I don't want to look at him again as I respond. "I guess you need to brush up on your nonverbal cues."

"I'd say I'm already pretty good in that department."

Even from the corner of my eye, I catch his smile. I turn to face him straight on.  

"So how is it you're missing that I'm not interested in talking to you?"

"You couldn't have decided that already. We haven't even met, yet."

Yeah, we've met. I know his type just fine. 

Once again, my hands are at my hips before I decide to put them there. "Yet for every two words you say to me, you look down my shirt."

"What's your name?" he asks with a laugh. 

My eyes narrow automatically and I turn to face the barista as she finishes up a drink on the machine. She sets his coffee down and he takes it. Their fingers graze but her smile is cut short when she realizes how quickly he turns away. He thinks he's found a new object for his attention, has he? Well, he's mistaken.

Cup in hand, he faces me, tapping his palm on the surface as though securing the lid, but his eyes are on mine. And I want nothing more than for him to turn his attention somewhere else. I'm not going to lie. The guy is good looking. But damn it if one glance isn't enough to tell me what he's about. I've got a lifetime of grudges held against guys like him. He'd better leave me alone before I let them all loose on him at once.

"Is it something exotic?" he asks. 

I stare back, straight faced, as his gaze moves over my dark hair and tan skin, before fixing on my equally dark eyes again.

 "Your name, I mean. Is it Camila or Gabriela...something like that, right?"

He takes a sip, waiting for my response.

I don't get it. It's obvious I'm annoyed by his attempt at small talk, yet it's almost like he's finding entertainment in my aggravation.

I have just under five minutes to reach my destination. All the while, I'm aware of this guy's eyes watching me. I can feel them, perusing around at will. Shamelessly. 

"Julia," the barista calls out as she sets my drink down.

Damn her.

I grab the cup with one hand, adjust my purse strap with the other, and ignore the soft chuckle rising from Giles as I make my way past him.

"See you around, Julia," he says, in that sly way he seems to say everything else.

Yeah, I don't think so. 

Once outside, I indulge in a long sip of my drink, only to immediately resist the urge to spit it back out. What meets my tongue isn't the mocha latte I ordered. It's something that tastes like vanilla and cardboard. Not only that, I realize as I reach the end of the sidewalk, the barista never handed over my pastry, which was supposed to be warming up as she made the drinks. 

I toss the ruined-drink into a trash bin at the streetlight, irritation surging through me at the barista's weak ovaries and her drooling over such an obvious asshole.