If We Ever Meet Again (If Love Book 1)

Eight months ago

“One classic milk tea and one honey oolong milk tea with tapioca. Regular sugar, regular ice.”

Farrah Lin slid a twenty yuan note across the counter toward the cashier, who smiled in recognition. Four days in Shanghai and Farrah was already a regular at the bubble tea joint by campus. She chose not to dwell on what that meant for her wallet and her waistline.

While the staff prepared her order, Farrah examined the menu. She knew nai cha (milk tea) and xi gua (watermelon). She recognized a few other Chinese characters, but not enough to form a coherent phrase.

“Here you go.” The cashier handed Farrah her drinks. “See you tomorrow!”

Farrah blushed. “Thanks.”

Note to self: ask Olivia to make tomorrow’s run.

Farrah stepped out of the tiny shop and walked back to campus. The sun began its descent and bathed the city in a warm golden glow. Bicyclists and motorcyclists zipped by, battling with cars for space on the narrow side street. The delicious smells wafting from the restaurants Farrah passed mixed with the far-less-pleasant scents of garbage and construction dust. Street vendors called out to passersby, hawking everything from hats and scarves to books and DVDs.

Farrah made the mistake of making eye contact with one such vendor.

“Mei nu!” Beautiful girl. It’d be flattering if Farrah didn’t know the hard sell that accompanied such a greeting. “Come, come.” The elderly vendor beckoned her over. “Where are you from?” she asked in Mandarin.

Farrah hesitated before answering. “America.” Mei guo. She dragged out the last syllable, unsure whether the admission would hurt or help.

“Ah, America. ABC,” the vendor said knowingly. ABC: American-Born Chinese. Farrah had heard that a lot lately. “I have some great books in English.” The vendor brandished a copy of Eat, Pray, Love. “Only twenty kuai!”

“Thanks, but I’m not interested.”

“How about this one?” The woman picked out a Dan Brown novel. “I’ll give you a deal. Three books for fifty kuai!”

Farrah didn’t need new books, and fifty kuai (around $7 USD) seemed pricey for cheap reprints of old novels. But the vendor seemed like a nice old lady, and Farrah didn’t have the energy to bargain with her.

She skimmed the English options and went straight for the romance: Jane Austen, Nicholas Sparks, JoJo Moyes.

Ok, Sparks and Moyes write love stories, not romance, but still.

Given the drought in Farrah’s dating life, she’d settle for any kind of romantic relationship, even one that ended tragically. Well, maybe not with death, but with a breakup or something. Anything that proved the crazy head-over-heels love you found in books and movies existed in real life.

After a disappointing freshman year filled with mediocre dates and fumbling stops at third base, Farrah was ready to give up on reality and live in fantasyland full time.

“I’ll take these.” She set her drinks on the ground so she could pick up Pride & Prejudice (her personal favorite), The Notebook, and Me Before You. She’d read all of them already, but what the heck, a reread never hurt anybody.

Farrah paid the vendor, who beamed and gushed her thanks before turning her attention to the next passerby.

“Mei nu!” The vendor flagged down a young woman in a cobalt dress. “Come, come.”

Farrah looped her shopping bag around her wrist and picked up her drinks while the young woman fended off the vendor’s aggressive sales pitch. She speed-walked back to campus, taking care not to make eye contact with any more vendors lest she got suckered into buying something else she didn’t need.

Farrah stopped at the crosswalk. Instead of crossing when the pedestrian light flashed green, she waited until a group of teenagers stepped off the curb before following them into the jungle that was Shanghai traffic.

Rule #1 of surviving in China: cross when locals cross. There’s safety in numbers.

By the time Farrah arrived at Shanghai Foreign Studies University, her study abroad program’s host campus, she’d already finished her drink. She tossed the empty container into a nearby trash can and pushed open the door to FEA’s lobby.

FEA, aka Foreign Education Academy, occupied one of the oldest buildings at SFSU. Not only did the four-story building lack an elevator, but the interior design left much to be desired. The lobby had potential—marble floors, tons of natural light streaming in through large windows facing the courtyard—but the furniture was straight out of the 80s (and not in the cool retro kind of way).

A cracked brown leather couch lined the wall beneath the windows alongside mismatched chairs and tables. A spindly magazine stand sagged beneath the weight of dozens of back issues of Time Out Shanghai. Faded Chinese landscape paintings hung on the wall, adding to the musty feel.

As usual, Farrah couldn’t help mentally redecorating the space. As she took the stairs to the third floor, she swapped out the current furniture for a cushioned wicker set with glass-topped tables, which would visually expand the lobby. Out went the old watercolors and in came the panels of Asian-inspired art—perhaps some up-close representations of the lotus flower or plum blossoms with modern Chinese calligraphy. There could be a wall of bookshelves for—

“Ow!” Farrah had been so absorbed in her design daydream she slammed into the wall. Her hand shot to her forehead as pain ricocheted through her brain. Fortunately, she couldn’t feel a bump.

Olivia’s bubble tea also remained intact, thank god. She was scary when she didn’t get her sugar fix.

The wall moved. “Are you ok?” it asked.

A walking, talking wall. She must’ve hit her head harder than she thought.

Farrah peeked out from beneath her hand and found herself staring into a pair of crystal blue eyes. She recognized those eyes. They’d stared back at her from the cover of Sports Illustrated last year, along with the accompanying high cheekbones and cocky grin.

Now, they examined her with a mix of amusement and concern.

“You’re not a wall,” she blurted.

“No, I’m not.” The not-a-wall cocked an eyebrow. A hint of a smile played over his lips. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but that’s a new one.”

Farrah fought the flush of embarrassment spreading across her face. Of all the people she could’ve run into, she had to run into Blake Ryan.

Even though she wasn’t a sports fan, she knew who he was. Everyone did. A hotshot football player from Texas who caused a national uproar when he quit the team at the beginning of the year. Besides the Sports Illustrated cover, Farrah remembered Blake from an ESPN documentary about the most talented college athletes in the country. Farrah’s roommate last year forced her to watch it because she was obsessed with the point guard on CCU’s basketball team, and she needed someone she could gush to.

It’d been the most boring seventy-five minutes of Farrah’s life, but at least there’d been plenty of eye candy, none of whom were dishier than the Texan standing in front of her.

Six feet two inches of tanned skin and chiseled muscle, topped with golden hair, glacial blue eyes, and cheekbones that could cut ice. He wasn’t Farrah’s type, but she had to admit the boy was fire. Blake looked the way she’d pictured Apollo looking when she learned about Greek mythology in seventh grade.

“Well, you’re really hard.” The words slipped out before Farrah could catch them.

I did not just say that out loud.

The flush traveled from her face to the rest of her body. No matter how hard she prayed, the floor didn’t open up and swallow her whole, that bastard.

Blake’s other eyebrow shot up.

“I mean, your chest is really hard. Nothing else. Although I’m sure it could be hard if it wanted to.”

Kill me.

The hint of amusement blossomed into a full-fledged grin, revealing twin dimples that should be classified as lethal weapons.

“It sure can,” Blake drawled. “Especially when I’m around someone as beautiful as you.”

Farrah’s mortification screeched to a halt. “Oh, please. Do they actually work for you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your cheesy pickup lines. Do they actually work for you?”

“I’ve never had any complaints. Besides, look at me.” Blake gestured at himself. “I don’t need pickup lines.”

“Wow.” Farrah shook her head. Typical jock. “It must be difficult walking around with such a big head.”

“Babe, that’s not the only part of me that’s big.”

Farrah couldn’t help it; her eyes dropped to the region below Blake’s belt. An image of what hid behind the denim flashed through her mind’s eye. Her mouth went dry.

“I’m talking about my chest, of course.” Blake shook with laughter.

Farrah’s gaze snapped up to his face. “I knew that.” The mortification crept back up her neck.

“Sure. Since you’ve already undressed me with your eyes, we should—”

“I did not undress you—”

“Properly introduce ourselves.” He held out his hand. “I’m Blake.”

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.