Evermore (Immortals 1)

"I knew it!" Miles nods. "I knew he was gay I could just tell.

Where'd you hear that?"

I stall, knowing there's no way I can divulge my true source, admitting that my dead little sister is now the ultimate Hollywood insider. "Um, I don't remember," I mumble, climbing out of my car. "I just know that it's true."

"What's true?" Damen asks smiling as he brings his lips to my cheek.

"To-" Miles starts.

But I shake my head and cut him off, unwilling to display my celebrity-obsessing shallow side so early in the game. "Nothing, we just, um, did you hear Miles is playing Tracy Turnblad in Hairspray?" I ask, going into a full-blown discourse of jumbled phrases and disjointed nonsense until Miles finally waves goodbye and heads off to class.

As soon as he's gone, Damen stops and says, "Hey, I have a better idea. Let's go have breakfast."

I shoot him the you're crazy look and continue walking, but I don't get very far before he's squeezing my hand and pulling me back.

"Come on," he says, his eyes on mine, laughing in a way that's contagious.

"We can't," I whisper, glancing around anxiously, knowing we're seconds from being late and not wanting it to get any worse. "Besides, I already had breakfast."

"Ever, please!" He drops to his knees, palms pressed together, eyes wide and pleading. "Please don't make me go in there. If you have any kindness at all, you won't make me do it."

I press my lips and try not to laugh. Watching my gorgeous, elegant, sophisticated boyfriend begging on his knees is a sight I never thought I'd see. But still, I just shake my head and say, "Come on, get up, bell's about to-" And I don't even finish the sentence before it's already rung.

He smiles, rising to his feet, wiping his jeans, and then tucking his arm around my waist as he says, "You know what they say, better a no-show than a tardy."

"Who's they?" I ask, shaking my head. "Sound more like you." He shrugs. "Hmmm, maybe it is me. Nonetheless, I guarantee there are much better ways to spend a morning. Because Ever," he says, squeezing my hand, "we don't have to do this. And, you don't have to wear this." He removes my sunglasses and lowers my hood. "The weekend starts now"

And even though I can think of a million good and valid reasons why we absolutely should not ditch, why the weekend should wait until three o'clock just like any other Friday, when he gazes at me, his eyes are so deep and inviting, I don't think twice, I just dive right in.

Barely recognizing the sound of my own voice when I hear myself say, "Hurry before they lock the gate."

We take separate cars. Because even though it went unspoken, it's pretty obvious we have no plans to return. And as I follow Damen up the sweeping curves of Coast Highway, I gaze out at the dramatic stretch of coastline, the pristine beaches, the navy blue waters, and my heart swells with gratitude, feeling so lucky to live here, to call this amazing place home. But then I remember how I ended up here-and just like that, the thrill is gone.

He makes a quick right and I pull into the space beside him, smiling as he comes around to open my door. "Have you been here yet?" he asks.

I gaze at the white clapboard hut and shake my head.

"I know you said you weren't hungry, but their shakes are best. You should definitely try the date malt, or the chocolate peanut butter shake, or both, it's my treat."

"Dates?" I crinkle my nose and make a face. "Um, I hate to say it, but that sounds awful."

But he just laughs and pulls me toward the counter, ordering one of each, and then carrying them over to the painted blue bench where we take a seat and gaze down at the beach.

"So which one's your favorite?" he asks.

I try them each again, but they're both so thick and creamy, I remove their lids and use a spoon. "They're both really good," I say. "But surprisingly, I think I like the date one best." But when I slide it toward him so he can taste too, he shakes his head and pushes it back. And something about that small simple act pierces straight through me.

There's just something about him, something more than just the strange magic tricks and disappearing acts. I mean, for one thing, this guy never eats.

But no sooner have I thought it than he reaches for the straw and takes a long deep pull, and when he leans in to kiss me his lips are icy cold.

"Let's head down to the beach, shall we?"

He takes my hand and we walk along the trail, shoulders bumping into each other, as we pass the milkshakes back and forth, even though I'm doing most all of the slurping. And as we make our way down to the beach, we remove our shoes, roll up our hems, and walk along the shore, allowing the frigid water to wash over our toes and splash on our shins.

"Do you surf?" he asks, taking the empty cups and placing one inside the other.

I shake my head, and step over a pile of rocks.