Ninja At First Sight (4 page)

His hands were on his hips, and he was giving me a sideways glare, examining me, though his mouth was curved in a somnolent smile. He studied me for a very long moment, and I allowed him to do so, even though I sensed he was bursting with restless energy.

As well, I became increasingly aware of the strange current building. The atmosphere grew charged and heavy; although I reasoned he was likely unaware and/or immune to it. I felt my attraction for him increasing, ballooning, even given his abrasive comments in the kitchen. I should’ve run in the other direction. Instead I found myself wanting to soothe him.

Also, a tortured Greg was so devastatingly handsome it made my throat tight and my chest hurt. Mostly, I just wanted to touch him.

But I didn’t.

He huffed a small laugh, breaking the tension, and glanced at the ceiling. “You make too much sense.”

I smiled, my eyes widening at the compliment. “I know. It’s a curse.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, pulling the sleeves of his navy blue long-sleeved T-shirt tight over his muscled shoulders. It took all my willpower not to look at his neck. His skin tone was a radiant olive, perma-tanned. It looked like it would be warm to the touch. I crossed my arms.

“Just stop it,” he said, his tone now dry, though I could tell he was teasing.

“Okay. I’ll stop being well reasoned.”

“Good. Be a fruitcake.”

“No one likes fruitcakes.”

“I do.”

“You’re the only one.”

“I should be enough,” he said.

I narrowed a single eye at him, scrunching one side of my face and teased him back. “No. Not nearly enough. I require legions of adoring fans.”

He nodded and this time couldn’t master his smile. “I sense that about you. You strike me as needy and narcissistic.”

“You’re very perceptive. I require constant praise for my misogynistic manifestos.”

He laughed, and it was such a wonderful sound my heart gave a stupid leap in response. I wanted to press my hand against my chest, but instead I held my breath.

The moment of levity ended with a smiling staring contest that soon transitioned into an extremely awkward non-smiling staring contest. His gaze moved over my face, his eyes a tad unfocused. I fought the urge to fidget (and won). Instead I stood perfectly still and gave myself this moment, with him, alone.

Then it was over.

Greg shook his head and pulled his hand through his longish hair. He rushed to the door. “I should go. I have puppies to club and kittens to drown…someplace.”

He left.

I stood completely still for several long moments, staring at the place he’d hurriedly vacated. The small suite area felt abruptly enormous without him in it. I reminded myself that he belonged to someone else. I would never show any sign of outward interest, but I would look. I would admire.

And I would do my very best not to covet.

***

I had a
date! In February…on Valentine’s Day.

His idea.

His name was Mark, but I’d nicknamed him "Legs" because he had the nicest legs, and, despite the fact that it was snowing outside, he always wore basketball shorts. I wasn’t complaining or questioning the sanity of this because it meant I got to look at his legs during class. Though I could have nicknamed him "Smiles" or "Blue Eyes" or “Blondie" because he had a magnificent smile and the loveliest blue eyes and the prettiest blond hair.

We met in art history class shortly after Fern had made me realize that I had a bad habit of not smiling or talking to people. I stopped watching people and started meeting people’s gazes, smiling at them. It made a huge difference.

Legs sat two seats down from mine in the giant lecture hall. On my first day back in class after Fern’s grand tour of the dorms, I smiled at him. He smiled, then moved two seats closer to me, and introduced himself.

Mark was eighteen, a farmer’s son, and the first person in his family to go to college. He wanted to be a civil engineer. He was really very good looking and friendly and sweet. He asked me if I’d like to join his art history study group—which I did—and then asked later in the week if I wanted to grab coffee—which I did.

Over coffee he asked me out. I said yes. He set the date, and we made plans.

Mark gave me a tiny excited flutter in my stomach, nothing like the overwhelming magnetic pull I’d experienced with Greg, but I was looking forward to the date. I wasn’t looking for anything long term. I wanted to experience something new.

Shortly after Mark asked me out, but before our date, I was asked out for coffee by a guy I’d smiled at in my P-chem class. His name was Jefferson, and he was adorable. I’d said yes but then later questioned this decision since I had a date scheduled with Mark.

This was also a new experience. So I sought out Fern to ask her what I should do. I tried several rooms of the girls I’d met and become friendly with over the last few weeks; one of them told me to try Greg’s room as Fern and Greg had political science together and typically studied after class.

My first instinct was to wait for Fern in my suite area rather than go to Greg’s room. Just the thought of going to Greg’s room gave me a wild feeling, hot and flushed, anxious. The last time I’d spent time with him, after the great kitchen debate, he’d left my room suddenly with a hurried and fictional excuse. I hadn’t spoken to him since…

I finally shook myself out of my reticence.

He was just a boy. He was harmless. He had a girlfriend who was gorgeous and sociable. I would calibrate my smiles and interactions to friendship or acquaintance level. No big deal.

Armed with my altruistic pragmatism, I marched to Greg’s. His suite was on the opposite end of the hall from mine, thirty doors separating us. This realization made me feel better for some reason.

I was prepared to knock but the suite door was open: I heard Fern’s voice as I approached. I decided I’d poke my head around the corner, interrupt briefly, ask Fern to come find me when she was finished, and then leave.

I poked my head around the corner and, thankfully, found Fern facing the door. Greg’s back was to me. She looked up instantly and gave me a smile.

“Hey, Fiona. You’re out and about.”

“Yes, I don’t want to interrupt. Just real fast, when you’re finished can you give me a few minutes? I need your advice.”

Greg had turned in his seat, and I could feel his eyes on me; I glanced down at him and gave him a head nod and a tight smile of acknowledgement.

“What kind of advice?” he asked, his tone as dry as ever.

“Just girl stuff.” I waved his question away then turned my attention back to Fern. “So I’ll see you later?”

“Girl stuff? Sounds exciting.” Fern’s eyes widened, and she rubbed her hands together.

Meanwhile, Greg stood and pulled a chair over from the other side of the suite. I was momentarily distracted by the sight of him in boot cut jeans, bare feet, and a plain white T-shirt. He was so tall and lean and delicious. My preoccupation with his body was likely why, when he grabbed my wrist as he returned and placed me in the seat he’d just vacated, I didn’t object.

“I’m excellent with girl stuff,” he said, taking the new seat so that both he and Fern faced me, as though I were about to be interviewed. “Ask any girl, they’ll all tell you how good I am with the girl stuff.”

“I, uh…” I turned to stand, not sure what to do.

But then Fern placed her hand on my knee to stay my retreat, “No, he really is. He’s fantastic with the girl stuff. Just think of him as one of the girls.” Her eyes flickered to him, moving up and down his body. He returned this perusal with a sardonic eyebrow lift.

“Well,” she amended, “think of him as a girl in a man’s body. He’s got the brain of a woman.”

He nodded. “Yes. Shrewd. Calculating. Resilient. Ruthless.”

I found myself rolling my lips between my teeth to keep from beaming at him. It occurred to me that this would be good practice. Being around Greg and tempering my reactions to him would help me navigate similar situations in the future.

Greg leaned forward, his elbows on his knees—he looked too big for the chair—and with a desert-dry delivery, he said, “Just tell Aunty Gregina all about it.”

Both Fern and I laughed, and I shook my head, narrowing my eyes at him. Though his face was solemn, his dark eyes were warm and teasing. I imagined he had an unbeatable poker face.

“Fine, here’s the story,” I sighed, still giving him a suspicious glare—something I’d seen Fern do to her legion of boys who were just friends on a number of occasions—then moved my attention back to Fern. I was having trouble looking at him and forming complete sentences. He made me feel warm and disoriented. “You know Mark, from my art history class?”

Fern nodded at me, then supplied for Greg, “He’s taking Fiona out on a date on Valentine’s Day.”

Greg shifted in his seat. “He’s your boyfriend.”

I shook my head, allowing my attention to stray to him just for a second. “No, it’s our first date.”

“On Valentine’s Day.” His matter-of-fact tone held a hint of disbelief.

“That’s right, so the thing is-”

“You should cancel it. Only a nutter takes a girl out for the first date on Valentine’s Day. Or a pedophile.”

Fern hit him on the shoulder. “Greg!”

He rubbed his shoulder like she’d hurt him, “What? You want our darling Fiona to go on a date with a pedophile?”

“Mark is not a pedophile.” Her voice became squeaky because she was shouting.

“How do you know? Are you well acquainted with the local chapter of child molesters? Have them over for tea?”

“You are so awful.” She shook her head, though she looked like she was valiantly fighting the urge to laugh.

“Perhaps you supply them with the candy for their vans.”

She lost her fight and burst out laughing, “Oh my God, you are awful. I can’t believe you’re making jokes about pedophiles.”

“I’m not.  Do you see me laughing? I’m the one trying to keep my Fiona from tangling body bits with the local association of man-boy-love.”

He
was
awful. He was irreverent and offensive and abrasive, and, for some strange reason which should have alarmed me, I found him completely enchanting. Perhaps the shock value appealed to me because my entire life had been so sheltered. Or perhaps I was twisted and wrong in some way.

Whatever the reason, his appalling comedy routine, delivered with a dry superiority, made him even more attractive.

I was definitely twisted and wrong.

“Just…just,” Fern held up her hand in front of his face, “just shut it, and let Fiona ask her question.” Then she turned to me, “Please, continue.”

“Okay…” I glanced between the two of them. Greg appeared to be completely at ease and all things attentive and serious. However, I sensed mischief lay just below the surface.

“So, the question is about Jefferson.”

“Jefferson?” Fern and Greg asked at the same time, though he sounded a tad alarmed.

Fern gave Greg a quelling look and leaned forward an inch. “Who is Jefferson?”

“Jefferson is a guy in my P-Chem class.”

“P-Chem? Aren’t you a freshman?” Greg asked.

I nodded once, allowing myself to admire the shape of his lips and jaw as I answered, “Yes, but I took the AP exams for most of my prerequisites.”

“So your major is…?”

“Stop interrupting, Greg.” Fern rolled her eyes.

“It’s okay. My major is electrical engineering.”

His gaze narrowed as his eyes flickered over me again, as though seeing me for the first time. “What other classes are you taking?”

“Well, um…differential equations, P-chem, vector calculus, dynamics, and art history.”

  He stared at me, his expression plainly betraying his surprise. I met his startled glare directly, waiting for him to make a comment. Instead he continued to study me in silence.

Fern drew my attention back to her by snapping her fingers. “Back to Jefferson from P-chem.”

“Oh, yes. Well, Jefferson has asked me out for coffee. My question is, is it wrong to go out for coffee with Jefferson if I’m going on a date with Mark?”

“I knew a Jefferson,” Greg mumbled, studying his fingernails. “He used to bugger animals, probably still does. I wonder if it’s the same Jefferson…”

Fern growled, her eyes slicing to him, then back to me. She gave me a small smile. “No, it’s not wrong at all. You and Mark aren’t established enough to be exclusive. Until you become exclusive with a person, you can date as many other guys as you like.”

“Just don’t have sex with any of them.” Greg’s words were anxious, drawing both mine and Fern’s attention.

His mouth was curved downward at the edges, and his eyes no longer appeared teasing. He cleared his throat, studied his hands, then lifted his gaze to Fern’s.

“Just until…until she’s exclusive with someone,” he explained.

Fern gave him an irritated flick of her wrist—I’d noticed she used her hands often in conversation—and turned back to me. “Don’t listen to him. Sex up as many boys as you like.”