Loathe to Love You by Ali Hazelwood

            I blink. Then I blink again. If three seconds ago someone had asked me whether I’m the type to multiple blink at the sight of some guy, I’d have laughed in their face. This guy, though . . .

            I guess I stand corrected.

            “Ian?” I smile, recovering from the surprise. “Mara’s cousin?”

            He frowns, as if momentarily blanking on Mara’s name. “Ah, yes.” He nods. Only once. “Apparently,” he adds, which makes me laugh. He waits for me to take a seat across from him before folding back into his chair. I notice that he doesn’t hold out his hand, nor does he smile. Interesting. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

            “No problem.” His voice is low-pitched but clear. Deep timbre. Confident; polite but not too friendly. I’m usually fairly good at reading people, and my guess for him is that he’s not quite enthused to be here. He’d probably rather be doing whatever it is that he came to California to do, but he’s a nice guy, and he’s planning to make a valiant effort to avoid letting me know.

            He just doesn’t seem to be particularly good at faking it, which is . . . kinda cute.

            “I hope I didn’t mess up your day.”

            He shakes his head—an obvious lie—and I take the opportunity to study him. He seems . . . quiet. The silent type, aloof, a little stiff. Big, more lumberjack than engineer. I briefly wonder if he’s military personnel, but the day-old stubble on his face tells me it’s unlikely.

            And such an intriguing, handsome face it is. His nose looks like it was broken at some point, maybe in a fight or a sports injury, and never bothered to heal back quite perfectly. His hair—red—is short and a little mussed, more I’ve been up working since six a.m. than artful styling. I watch him scratch his—big—neck, then cross his—wide—biceps on his—broad—chest. He gives me a patient, expectant look, like he’s fully committed to answering all my questions.

            He is, physically, the opposite of me. Of my small bones and tanned complexion. My hair, eyes, sometimes even my soul, are black-hole dark. And here he is, Martian red and ocean blue.

            “What can I get you?” a voice asks. I turn and find Sudoku Boy standing right next to our table. Right. Coffee place. Where people consume beverages.

            “Iced tea, please.”

            He walks away without a word and I look at Ian once again. I’m itching to text Mara. Your cousin looks like a slightly jacked version of Prince Harry. Maybe you should have kept in touch?

            “So.” I cross my hands and lean my elbows on the table. “What does she have on you?”

            He tilts his head. “She?”

            “Great-Aunt Delphina.” He blinks twice. I smile and continue, “I mean, it’s a Thursday afternoon. You’re in California for a handful of days. I’m sure you have something better to do than meet up with your long-lost cousin’s friend.”

            His eyes widen for a split second. Then his expression levels back to neutral. “It’s fine.”

            “Is it an embarrassing baby pic?”

            He shakes his head. “I don’t mind helping out.”

            “I see. A baby video, then?”

            He’s silent for a moment before saying, “As I said, it’s not a problem.” He looks like he isn’t used to people pushing him, which is unsurprising. There is something subtly removed about him. Vaguely distant and intimidating. Like he’s not quite reachable. It makes me want to get closer and poke.

            “A baby video of you . . . running around in the kiddie pool? Picking your nose? Rummaging around the back of your diaper?”

            “I—”

            Sudoku Boy drops off my iced tea in a plastic cup. Ian’s eyes follow him for a few seconds, then return to mine with an interesting mix of stoic resignation. “It was more of a toddler video,” he says cautiously, like he’s surprising even himself.

            “Ah.” I grin into my tea. It’s both too sweet and too sour. With a subtle aftertaste of gross. “Do tell.”

            “You don’t want to know.”