In His Eyes (Into You Book 2)

by Julie Olivia

“Last time I checked, you’re the lobster threatening to murder me.”

  “If only I could be so lucky.”

  “No, not today,” Grace says, twisting her body to look back at us as Cameron starts the car with this big grin on his face as if he’s admiring just how feisty his fiancée is. “Not this week. This is a happy time for me to marry the love of my life. I’m already irritated because we can’t take our dogs, and I refuse to take in these…these additional bad vibes!”

  I’m now noticing the letters on Grace’s shirt peeking through her long hair: #Bridezilla. It looks identical to the custom shirts Ramona usually makes, and I’m willing to bet it’s one of her creations. Well, she hit the nail on the head with this one.

  I extend my hand to Nia once more to offer a truce. “I won’t fight if you won’t?”

  She narrows her brown eyes. They’re deep pools of chocolate, swirling with strings of lighter caramel. Nia is this odd mix of forced politeness fueled by a deeper, much darker personal vendetta against me. It’s almost like the grudge gives her confidence.

  Her posture is perfectly straight as she says, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  What a woman.

  4

  Nia

  The nine-hour drive is the opposite of what I imagined when I woke up this morning. I had intended to cruise in my own car while listening to some steamy audiobook. If I have to endure the charm of Ian all week, I could at least fantasize about some attainable muscled hunk taking me on the beach under moonlight.

  Instead, I’m stuck with Ian in a tight car with a very handsy bride and groom. Every so often I look and see Ian’s large hands on the center console as he leans forward to talk with Cameron. I hate that I imagine what it would be like to touch those hands, or to have them touch me in only the best of horrible ways.

  Cameron keeps pulling the car over every other hour to admire various buildings. It’s his architectural passion coming out, and every time it’s the same deal: Grace lovingly wraps her arms around his waist as they look off in engaged bliss (sometimes I even think I see her touching just below his waistband? Ew.), and Ian spends his time either attempting conversation with me or staring off into the distance with his hands in his pockets, looking cool and sexy.

  What a jerk.

  We eventually stop off at an old roadside country store that advertises local peaches. I walk over to the covered cart, where an old woman smiles at me as if this is the most blessed day she’s ever lived. Judging by the texture of her skin and her crinkled laugh lines, I’d say she’s spent a lot of her life enjoying this kind of sunny weather. I smile back at her.

  “Good morning,” I say. Her wrinkled smile beams back. It would be a sweet moment if the chipper voice of Ian didn’t come from behind me a second later and almost make me jump out of my skin.

  “The weather is beautiful, eh, Polly?”

  Happiness gone.

  It’s the same nickname he’s used for years after finding out my parent’s absurd naming conventions. Yes, they named their daughter Apollonia. Yes, middle school was an absolute treat. And yes, I used to sort of kind of like it when he called me that. It was like a fun little joke between us—until it wasn’t.

  I watch him breathe in the surrounding air, showing off his broad, muscular chest as it expands. I bet he’s doing that on purpose.

  “Don’t call me that,” I shoot back at him.

  Ian is like this—pushy, cocky, always doing whatever he wants. I can’t stand it. And yet…it sends some odd spark through me, like fuel to the flame I keep trying to snuff out. Let me tell you: stop, drop, and roll doesn’t work. Trust me.

  “Nia,” he continues, grinning from ear to ear as if walking on eggshells with each syllable. “How long has it been?”

  “Not long enough.” Eight months and three days, actually. Not that I’ve been counting.

  “Ouch.” His hand goes to his heart in mock offense and I try to ignore the gesture as well as his defined wrists and muscled forearms. The sun has been doing him favors this summer. I shake the thought off.

  Ian looks down to me—it’s the only direction he can look. I am a fairly average 5’ 4”. He is a little more than a foot taller than me, and while that could seem like a dream for some women, I refuse to be seduced by a man based on height alone. You can shove your online dating profiles stating I’m over 6 feet tall someplace else.

  “Well, have you missed me?” he asks with a smile. My chest constricts. It’s a complicated question, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  I almost don’t want to give him the satisfaction of a conversation, but the old lady at the register stares at me and I feel personally attacked by her judgment. She doesn’t know us. She doesn’t know the history.

  Ian always told me he didn’t date co-workers. Of course, he said that at a time when my own inhibitions were lowered, I was vulnerable, and I tried to act on my attraction to him like the silly, lonely idiot I was. I’ve hated myself ever since, but I’ve hated him even more. It’s easy to dislike a man who turns you down only to find him later that evening with another, much younger co-worker—the receptionist, of all people.

  I don’t date co-workers, my ass.

  I wanted him. It took me a bit to admit it to myself, but I did. Hell, I’d be blind to not long for him now. I had let my guard down and was strong enough to resist at the time, but seeing Ian and Saria climb into that car together? That broke me.

  Years of teasing me? Just a fun game for him. It meant nothing. I meant nothing. I was the butt of his jokes, and it’s hard to forgive a man who led me on for so long only to shoot me in the heart with an arrow—and not the sweet Valentine kind.

  Old lady, you don’t know the half of it.

  But her gaze drills into me and she reminds me too much of my late grandma, who insisted on me being cordial to even the worst of enemies. So, I oblige the ghost.

  “How is self-employment?” I ask.

  “It’s going well,” Ian says, allowing my change of subject and browsing the peaches alongside me. I try my best not to let our arms cross paths, though his hand does come dangerously close. I’m watching you, boy. “I like being my own boss.”

  “You never were one for authority,” I say. Understatement of the century. If I had a nickel for every time someone told Ian to do something and he came up with some snarky comment to sidestep the responsibility or just straight-up refused, I wouldn’t need to work anymore. Not that I would stop working due to Ian, anyway—just on principle.

  “I always respected human resources at least,” Ian says. He grins down at me, and I give a sarcastic grimace in return.

  “You tested the limits.”

  “And you let me.”

  His hand is on the peach right next to the one my hand is hovering over. He arches an eyebrow and takes one step closer. I narrow my eyes, daring him to try anything.

  I dislike his stupid, cocky face. I dislike the way he flirts with the world as if his smile is the meaning of life. It makes me want nothing more than to prove him wrong. But, in this shack, in the heat of the summer, there is some weird greenhouse-like effect where I feel flushed, and I can’t tell if it’s the humidity or that silly little grin of his. There’s also that annoying, ever-familiar snag in my chest at the sight and closeness of him.

  The fan overhead is the only source of cool air, and it isn’t doing its job nearly as well as it should. Ian is driving my blood pressure through the roof of this little fruit stand.

  “Don’t give yourself so much credit,” I say.

  We stare at each other like we’re in some great war, looking across the battlefield before firing off cannons. On one side, there’s me, ready to defend my land and ward off invaders with guns a-blazing. On the other side, there’s Ian, a man of secret warfare with an army of spies and silver-tongued speech, drifting into opposing territory just as soft and sweet as poison.

  “This is going to be a stellar trip,” he declares with a grin.

 
He picks up the peach and takes a large bite of it. A bit of the fruit’s juice slowly runs down his chin, creating a small trail through his stubble before he wipes it off. He wiggles his eyebrows as if he knows I’m watching that single droplet flow down from his lips. He drops some bills on the counter in front of the old woman and, with a wink to her—not even to me—he saunters off. Yes, he saunters.

  I place my three peaches on the scale in front of the now chuckling woman.

  “Honey, if I had a man who looked like he does…” She trails off in thought.

  I slap my money on the counter. “Then you would be miserable.”

  5

  Ian

  We arrive at the resort late that afternoon. I had to expend most of my energy trying to melt Nia’s ice-cold exterior. The snide comments were like a game of chess, each of us attempting to stay moves ahead of the other. I love the game. I love her sass. Even when we stopped for tacos and all of us made it through the line ordering burrito after burrito, Nia ordered a salad, probably just to spite me.

  I’m more offended on behalf of the burritos.

  Now listen up: I have spent weeks, months, and years pining after Nia. She was the bright, unmoving, stubborn sun that lit up my days before I left Treasuries Inc. to open my own practice. I appreciate her tenacity, but if that girl gets her mind set on something, she sticks to it, even if that dedication is focused on hating me and burritos. Those poor things.

  You would think my time away from Treasuries would have eased some of the animosity between us. I was hoping maybe she would forget how much I annoyed her—in particular, those last couple years in which her hatred really turned on full blast for reasons I, quite frankly, don’t understand.

  We always butted heads to a degree, but we maintained a semblance of friendship, or maybe more of an understanding. The sarcasm, the witty exchanges…it kept the days interesting and fueled some unspoken spark, but she really laid into me during those last two years. She gave me my first and second write-up when she had never given me any before. She even made me sign the updated employee handbook. She hadn’t made me sign any of the updated editions since the day I started, even though I know for a fact she hounded the rest of the company to do so. In that last year, though? You bet your ass I signed each and every amendment.

  But I’m done with that and ready to move on. Nia needs to know how I feel. I need to try one last time. I waited months to approach her, to have us in an environment that wasn’t constrained by stupid workplace policies. I could have tried my luck during the past few months since we weren’t co-workers anymore, but she would have probably been more willing to jump into the ocean and let the tide take her rather than meet me for lunch or dinner. No point in wasting my efforts then when I can put my all into it now.

  I can’t live life with regrets. I learned that lesson before, and I don’t need to learn it again.

  Buckle up, Nia Smith.

  We’re greeted in the resort’s lobby by a very loud, earsplitting squeal followed by the fwip-slap-fwip-slap of sandals running toward Grace. The poor bride is almost barreled over by a bundle of curly hair. It’s my sister, and she’s wearing a questionably short crop top and cut-off jean shorts. Her black hair is pulled up into a haphazard ponytail and strands are sticking out every which way in what is most likely a reaction to the intense Florida humidity. Judging by the state of my own hair, I’m not surprised to see the same effect on her.

  “You’re getting married! You’re getting married!” she yells as various vacationers turn to stare. “Girl, I am going to matron of honor this place UP!” She finally pulls out of the hug, and I notice her shirt also has vinyl lettering: #HonorThisBitch.

  Grace and my little sister, Ramona, have been best friends from elementary school all the way through college. I’ve seen them through everything: the awkward teenage years and their loud sleepovers spent gossiping about boys (which they inevitably kicked me out of with a scream), Grace’s rebellion stage where she came to our house to vent about her completely unreasonable parents, and Ramona’s passionate love affair with her now husband Wes. That last one almost split up their friendship, but, as usual, they persevere—a joint force to be reckoned with.

  “I want penis popsicles, and I will settle for no less,” Grace demands with her hands on her hips.

  Ramona nods in agreement, and I spot a quick glance to me with a hint of I knew it plastered on her massive grin. “Penis pops it is, Grace.” Her arms outstretch toward me and I do the same, Frankenstein’s-monster-walking my way over to her until we hug.

  “Big brother,” she says.

  “Little sister.”

  She pulls back with a cordial pat and then rubs her palms together, scheming—always scheming. “Now where is that other bridesmaid?”

  I glance over to see Nia already making her way to check in and completely ignoring the scene behind her. Her head tilts slightly as if she’s heard her name being called, but she stays the course of waiting in line and pretending the loud girl behind her doesn’t exist.

  “She’s hiding from you,” I whisper to Ramona, throwing my thumb over my shoulder to direct her toward Nia. Ramona’s face contorts into dissatisfaction, but I hold out my finger, telling her to wait a moment as I turn on my heel to walk toward Nia.

  “Hey Polly, I can take your bags,” I offer, extending my hand.

  She finally looks over her shoulder to see both Ramona and Grace staring with their lips pursed in mock duck faces and their butts sticking out as if they were mannequins.

  “I’m fun, I swear,” Ramona calls over, winking. Grace is grinning back with two thumbs up. Nia’s eyes widen and she suddenly looks like a child tourist seeing Mickey Mouse for the first time and realizing, Holy shit that’s an actual, real-life, giant rat. Except Ramona is an actual, real-life, massive extrovert.

  I smile. “I’ll check in for you. Got your ID?”

  Nia slowly lowers the strap of her bag into my hand, taking some of her tank top with it and revealing a colored bra strap. I try to hide my grin. She reaches into her crossbody purse to pull out her license, jabbing it toward me between her index and middle finger. “Lose it and you’re dead.”

  “There’s that charm.” I take the ID and lug the bag’s strap over my shoulder as she walks toward the two girls. Ramona squeals again and Nia is embraced before she can even protest.

  “Nia, right?”

  “Yes,” she gets out, her face smooshed against Ramona’s chest. “Hi, I’m Nia.”

  “I have a shirt for you!” Ramona pushes her shoulders away so she can reach into the tote slung in the crook of her arm. “It says #BridesmaidBeast! What do you think?”

  “Cute!” Nia grins from ear to ear. I know that grin—it’s her work smile. Is she actually happy with it, or is she being nice? I know. Because I know Nia.

  “Wow, is this your natural hair color? Girl, it’s gorgeous.” Ramona is stroking her hands through Nia’s ends.

  “Never dyed it a day in my life,” Nia says, and I sense a hint of pride in her voice. I would be proud too. It’s gorgeous, like the hair of an angel—a hard, jawbreaker shell of an angel.

  “Confident,” Ramona observes, looking her up and down. “Love it.”

  Grace finally steps in to do formal introductions between the two. I eventually see Nia’s laugh shift from uncomfortable and resistant to more genuine with every moment that passes.

  “Now ladies, my sweet blonde and my firecracker red,” Ramona says, throwing an arm around Nia and Grace’s shoulders, “let’s hit up that pool.”

  Wait, pool?

  “Sir, are you going to move forward or what?” a voice behind me asks, and the tone knocks me out of my thoughts of Nia in a tiny pink bikini. I’m ready to turn and give this dude a piece of my mind when I’m greeted by a familiar face.

  Just like Ray can fit into any girls’ club, her husband Wes is a man’s man. He’s already pulling me in for a bear hug, and it’s like a battle of arm strength as we embrace
hard enough to pop the other’s head off his neck.

  “Truce?”

  “Truce.”

  We let go. Wes is shorter, but what he lacks in height, he makes up for in muscle. He’s like a walking brick wall, and his arms are the graffiti. When I first met him, he had a few strategically placed tattoos, but the number grew quickly and now his sleeves are fully finished pieces of art.

  Cameron, appearing to be a walking coat rack with arms full of Grace’s bags, walks over to join the two of us, panting as he does so. Wes is already pulling him into the test-of-strength hug ritual.

  “Congratulations, buddy!” Wes says, patting his back.

  “Thanks, man,” Cameron says. “I’m just ready for beer. Lots of beer. And sun. Maybe volleyball?”

  “Ian, you got the bachelor party down?” Wes asks, nudging my arm as I edge toward the counter.

  “Have I planned the bachelor party? Get real. I’m a master at planning bachelor parties,” I say, letting out a bark of laughter. “Bars, getting arrested, strip clubs—the necessary evil—you name it, we’ll do it. If I could have planned my sister’s bachelorette party, I would have, but apparently that’s ‘not the brother’s job’ and would have been ‘weird.’” I use air quotes as I shrug.

  “You haven’t planned any of it, have you?” Cameron says, shaking his head.

  “Define plan.” I grin and I pass my card along to the girl across the counter. “Ian Chambers and Nia Smith, please.”

  Wes sighs. “Cam, it feels like just yesterday when you mercilessly flirted with Grace at our dinner party.”

  “Was it that obvious?” Cameron asks with a cheeky grin.

  “We all knew you were getting some that night,” I say. I cringe as the concierge rolls her eyes in response and hold my hand up in apology. “Sorry.”

  “I like to think I was playing it cool,” Cameron says mid-laugh.

  “You’re not even self-aware.” I tsk. “Bad trait.”