Page 31 of Spring Tide

“Okay.” I finally stuff a taco into my mouth, quickly discovering that it’s pure fucking heaven.

“Actually, about that. I wanted to run something by you.”

“Go ahead,” I mutter, moving on to my second taco.

Damn. This delicious combination of meat and hot sauce is killing me slowly. In a good way, if that’s possible.

“That guy I had a crush on ... ya know, the baseball player?”

I take a moment to pause my incessant chewing. “What about him?”

“Well, he kind of asked me out. Or, he asked me on like a group hangout at a bar, but it was definitely flirty,” she rambles, avoiding my gaze. “And I’m planning to go.”

“You don’t need to run that by me, Harper.”

“It’s just ... if people really think we’re together, then it wouldn’t be great for me to be seen in public with Nate. So we’ll just have to make sure everyone knows we’re taking it slow, right? That we’re totally free to see other people?”

Now, that gets my attention. “Are we talking about Nate Gunderson?”

“Aw, shit.” She slaps both palms over her face, shaking her head. “I said his actual name, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

She drags her hands down her face, stretching her heated cheeks. “Um, well ... yeah, it’s him.”

“Interesting,” I say plainly, devouring my third taco in a matter of seconds.

She perks up. “Interesting how?”

I swallow. “Doesn’t seem like he’d be your type.”

“And you know him that well?” she asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“I think I do.”

No, I know I do. From the few interactions we’ve had, I know for certain that Nate’s a conceited little prick. And Harper? The girl is ... pure as gold. There’s not an arrogant bone in her body.

“And you knowmethat well?”

I shrug, swiping my greasy hands on a napkin. “I’m starting to.”

“Then you should know that I don’t have a type.” She blinks down at her mountain of food, absentmindedly picking at a piece of egg.

“Everyone has a type,” I snort.

“I don’t.” She rips off a small corner of tortilla, dipping it in hot sauce before popping it in her mouth. “I like so many different types of boys, honestly. And the occasional girl. I’m really not picky when it comes to love.”

“Hm,” I murmur, flipping through the small white bags in search of one labeled “C.” That’s the chorizo and egg, I’m fairly certain. My new favorite.

“Hm?” She tosses her hands up. “That’s it? Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

“No further comment.”

“Okay, wise one.” She leans back in her seat, folding both arms across her chest. “If everyone has a type, then what’s yours?”

“Oh, it, uh, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Of course it does.” She gives me a teasing glare. “I want to know, so it matters.”

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