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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 night,” she tossed over her shoulder.
“My ego and I always have a good night. By the way,” Blake called after her. “I hate seeing you go, but I love watching you leave.”
Farrah pressed her lips together, struggling not to smile at his intentionally clichéd line.
Blake Ryan may have a better sense of humor than she expected, but he wasn’t leading man material.
Not for her.
Not even close.
Chapter Two
Blake was still grinning when he stepped into his room and switched on the lights. The expression on Farrah’s face when he asked if she thought his pickup lines were cheesy?
