The first thing I notice is his face—all brown skin, dark eyes and cheekbones. The second thing I notice is that he’s very tall. Gratuitously tall, really. He looks ridiculous on my short bike. The third thing is his hair—long, skinny dreads dipped in blue and piled high on top of his head. So maybe not quite as tall as I thought, since his hair is responsible for at least three inches. The fourth thing is his hands, which are giant and completely dwarf my handlebars. The fifth thing I notice is I’m noticing a lot of things about him. So I stop.
“Umm,” I say.
He swings one absurdly long leg over the bike and hops off.
He tilts the bike toward me. “I’m guessing this is yours,” he says.
I step into the studio. “Did you adjust my seat?”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” he says. “Long legs.” He lifts one leg and wiggles it. To demonstrate how tall he is.
I notice him some more.
He’s wearing ripped jeans, black canvas shoes and a teal-blue T-shirt with a line drawing of a unicorn. It says Not the Only One in cursive. Could he be any more hipster? Dyed dreads, torn jeans, old-school shoes and ironic T-shirt. Any three of those things would’ve been enough. Four is too much. He’s a hipster overachiever.
“Nice bike, by the way,” he says when I take the handlebars. “Never seen one of those. What kind is it?”
“Beach cruiser,” I say, wondering how he’s never seen one. These things are all over every beach in Southern California. It’s true, though, that mine’s really nice. Tasseled handlebars, wide wicker basket, fenders and a step-through frame so I can ride it with a skirt on and not show my goods to the world. Dad got it for me for my birthday before everything fell apart.
I flip down the kickstand so I can adjust the seat from tall-hipster-guy height to not-tall-non-hipster-girl height.
“I was gonna change it back right after I got done—”
“Breaking Jess’s heart,” I say, finishing his sentence for him with the thing he was probably not going to say.
He looks away from me, embarrassed, and then palms the entire back of his neck with a single enormous hand. There’s a tattoo on the back of his biceps. It’s either an X or a plus sign. Hipster-trait tally at five.
“My name’s X, by the way,” he says.
I look up. “Ex? Like an e followed by an x?”
“Short for Xavier. Everyone calls me X.”
“So that’s an X tattooed on your arm? Aren’t you supposed to tattoo someone else’s name?”
He lifts his arm and frowns at his own biceps. “That’s not me. I’m in a band. X Machine.”
“Oh. So the band is named after you?” I don’t know why I’m giving him such a hard time. Maybe for the sake of this Jess girl.
He frowns some more and looks a little lost. “It’s just a cool name,” he says.
I finish adjusting my seat and flip up the kickstand. “Well, nice meeting—”
“What’s your name?” he asks.
“Yvette,” I say. I don’t know why I don’t say Evie.
“Thanks for letting me borrow your bike, Yvette,” he says, and gives me a grin so spectacular it makes me （temporarily） stupid.
Technically, it’s not a perfect smile. He has a small gap between his front teeth, and the right side of his face scrunches a little too much. Still, I have no doubt it’s a grin that works wonders for him. It gets him A grades on B papers, into sold-out concerts and the phone numbers of heads of state. When the time comes, it’ll get him into heaven, even though he should clearly be headed in the other direction.
It’s a grin that works well for him. I know because it’s working well on me.
I force my brain cells to stop abdicating their duties and remind myself that he’s not my type.
Mainly because I don’t have a type. Not anymore.
And even back when I did have a type, it was never anyone so…obvious. Tall, hipster-hot and in a band? I mean, he’s the definition of a heartbreaker, right? Literally, he was just breaking someone’s heart. It doesn’t matter that he seemed genuinely pained while he was doing it.
“Okay,” I say. “I’m leaving now.”
He raises a single eyebrow and I almost laugh. For a second, I feel like I’m a character in one of my old romance books. Raising a single eyebrow is such a Classic Romance Guy Characteristic.
I grab my bike and head out and tell myself I’m not in a romance novel.
CHAPTER 10