If We Ever Meet Again (If Love, #1)

by Ana Huang

This would kill him. It didn’t matter how much he prepared; these next thirty minutes were going to rip his heart out and pulverize it. It was inevitable.

He did trust her—but the truth would shatter her. So he did the only thing he could do: he lied.

“It was fun while it lasted, but the year is almost over and I—I’m not interested anymore. I’m sorry.” Liar. “You’re lying.” He flinched. She knew him well. Too well. “I’m not.”

“You are. You said you loved me.” “I lied.” He couldn’t look her in the eyes. Her sharp inhale twisted his heart into a painful knot.

He clenched his hands into fists and forced his body to still. “Farrah.” This was it. His breath came out in short, shallow bursts. “I got back with my ex-girlfriend over the holidays. I didn’t know how to tell you. I love her, and I made a mistake here, with us. But I’m trying to fix it.”

“It was all a lie then, this past year.” He dropped his gaze again. “Why? Why did you pretend you cared? Was it some sick joke? You wanted to see whether I’d be gullible enough to fall for you? Well, congratu-fucking-lations. You won. Blake Ryan, the champion. Your father was right. You shouldn’t have quit. No one plays the game better than you.”

So this was what dying felt like.

“I’m sor—” “If you say ‘I’m sorry’ one more time, I’ll go to the kitchen, come back, and cut your balls off with a rusty knife. In fact, I may do that anyway. You’re a fucking asshole. I’m sorry I wasted all this time on you, and I’m sorrier for your girlfriend. She deserves better.”

He wanted, more than anything, to tell her it was all a joke and that he was messing with her. He wanted to grab her and breathe in that orange-blossom-and-vanilla scent that drove him crazy, to confess how head over heels he was for her and to kiss her until they ran out of breath. But he couldn’t. The first part would be a lie, and the second…well, that was something he could never do again.

The last intact piece of his heart shattered at the thought. The shards pricked at his self-control until he could no longer hold back the tears. Huge, silent sobs wracked his body for the first time since he was seven, when he’d fallen out of a tree and broken his leg. Only this time, the pain was a million times worse. All their moments together flashed through his mind, and the boy who’d once sworn he would never cry over a girl…cried. He cried because he’d hurt her. He cried because it kept his mind off the desperate loneliness that weighed on his soul the moment she left. Most of all, he cried for what they had, what they lost, and what they could never be.

A hotshot football player from Texas

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.

Blake looked the way she’d pictured Apollo looking when she learned about Greek my...

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

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

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

“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.”

He was the opposite of her ideal romantic hero—tall, dark, and handsome, with a side of sensitive, cultured, and well-read—but

“So we didn’t need to introduce ourselves.” “No.” He stepped closer without releasing her hand. “But I wanted an excuse to touch you.”

The deep, velvety sound rolled through the empty stairwell, filling it with its richness.

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.

“Remind me again, was it you who wrote How to Win Friends and Influence People?” Blake tapped a finger on his chin. “Oh, wait. In order for you to do that you’d have to, you know, be literate. My bad.”

“Your resemblance to a gorilla is remarkable,” Kris observed. “Bite me.” “You wish.”

Celebrity fantasy? Ian Somerhalder or Henry Cavill. Or both. Farrah added that last part as a joke, though it earned her a few speculative glances from the guys. Men. So predictable.

Farrah couldn’t tell whether Leo was impressed, amused, or bemused.

At this point, Farrah was never going to have sex. She could picture her headstone engraving already: HERE LIES FARRAH LIN, WORLD’S OLDEST VIRGIN, WHO TRIED TO GIVE IT AWAY BUT COULDN’T. MAY SHE REST IN PEACE

Blake blamed Daniel Craig for his predicament. If Shanghai hadn’t looked so dope in that Skyfall scene, which he watched right before he submitted his study abroad application with his city choice, he wouldn’t be here. He’d be in Sydney, hooking up with surfer babes and living his best life on the beach. Australia was even farther from home than China. It would’ve been perfect. Stupid Bond fight sequence.

since he technically hadn’t tried to shoot Blake (yet), but Blake still filed a restraining order against the girl’s entire damn family. Even funner times.

“Now is that the proper way to greet someone?” he drawled. Austinites don’t have strong accents, but he could lay it on thick when he wanted to. “Didn’t your mama teach you manners?” “She did. That’s why I left you and your vanity in peace. It would’ve been rude to interrupt.” Blake placed a hand over his chest. “Vain? Me? You break my heart.”

“Is that your favorite thing about yourself?” “Favorite, as in one? I can’t pick just one.” He frowned. “Oh. I see.” “Uh-huh. Now that we’ve established the obvious fact of your vanity, can you be quiet? I’m trying to work.” “So am I.” “You are not working.” “I was working until you came in and interrupted me.” “I didn’t say anything when I came in!” “You distracted me with your radiant presence. It was like a goddess descended from the heavens. How can I focus on something as mundane as Chinese vocabulary when faced with such an extraordinary vision?”

Blake didn’t know a single thing about design, but he wished he did. Not because he wanted to be a designer, but because of the way Farrah’s eyes lit up when she talked about it.

because it ain’t a full meal without dessert.

Blake didn’t understand why girls traveled in packs like wolves, even to the bathroom. Especially to the bathroom. What did they do in there, throw a party?

Farrah’s eyes resembled pools of melted chocolate. Beautiful, delicious melted chocolate.

Her tone rankled him. Blake was used to people thinking he was a stupid jock. He usually shrugged it off—who was the one with a 3.8 GPA, bitches?—but Farrah’s assumption stung.

Blake’s ire melted at the chastised look on her face.

There it was again—that stupid stomach flutter. She should get that checked out.

Her wistful tone made his heart ache in the strangest way.

“Leo’s a crush. I want big, crazy, stupid love. The kind that’s worthy of

Hollywood.” Farrah sighed. “I just want to know what that feels like.”

Hollywood romance was a load of crap.

For someone so status driven, Olivia was surprisingly open about her less-than-highbrow reading habits.

Blake was lonely. It was a real bitch, considering he’d spent years wishing for more alone time.

Blake’s dry spell? Donezo.

Thank god. If he went any longer without sex, they’d have to wheel him into the ER for emergency blue ball surgery.

“You know what? I’m taking it back.” She attempted to swipe the figurine from his hands. He held it above his head, laughing as she jumped to try to reach it. “I’m giving it to Josh.” Blake stilled. “Who’s Josh?” “My cousin.”

“You’re a guy. Guys make terrible decisions.” “That’s sexist.” “Sue me.” Blake grinned. Damn, he’d missed her. “So where do you want to eat dinner, princess?”

Blake was going to jump. Seventy stories, 764 feet, and nothing but a rope to keep him from sailing into the afterlife at the tender young age of twenty-one. It was a helluva bet.