My curling iron has been warming up and is hot enough to start my hair. I take the next forty-five minutes to wrap my long hair around its barrel, creating loose waves. I spritz it with Bumble & Bumble Surf spray, scrunch it so it looks like I’ve spent the day at the beach, and start applying my makeup.
Normally, I don’t take this much time in the morning to get ready. My mom is probably down in the kitchen wondering why I’m up so darn early.
I won’t lie.
We all know it’s because of that damn Weston McGrath.
Soon enough I’m taking my seat in Marketing first period with one of my favorite teachers, Mrs. Paul. Short, gray, pudgy, and in her early sixties, Mrs. Paul reminds me of my grandma. Also, she doesn’t put up with any crap, so it’s always a riot when she unleashes her fury on someone in class.
As I’m organizing my homework and removing it from my folder, a large body slides into the seat next to mine that doesn’t belong there. It’s Rick Stevens, and he’s wearing a white hockey T-shirt with the saying Stitches Get Bitches on it.
Classy. Real classy.
“Damn, Wakefield, you clean up nice.” Rick wears an idiot grin that I want to slap off his face, and he’s leaning over the desk, blatantly peering at my chest. Technically, it could be considered a leer. “Nice…necklace.”
Only, I’m not wearing a necklace. Gross.
Isn’t he a little young to be a lecherous pig?
I don’t respond, choosing to ignore him. What guy calls a girl by her last name, anyway? I thought guys only did that to each other.
“Do you need a tutor for the midterm project?” he asks, raising his eyebrows. Gross, did he just use air quotes when he said the word tutor? “I’m really good at giving instruction.”
“Er, no, I’m good. Thanks.”
“Do you want a study buddy?” he asks, once again using his fingers to punctuate his words.
“I’ll do the project entirely on my own, thanks.”
“So, how’s about you and me—”
Fortunately, he is cut off.
“Mister Stevens, pah-lease stop harassing Miss Wakefield and take your assigned seat,” comes the stern voice of Mrs. Paul. She says the word mister in such a scandalized tone that it has me snorting in an unladylike way behind my folder. Rick stands up, stretches his arms, puffs his chest out while throwing me what he probably considers a suggestive smile, and walks to his desk at the front of the room.
Gross. He’s like an oily used-car salesman. Jenna would be dying right now if she could see this. Absolutely in hysterics. She loves it when I’m uncomfortable, damn her. Sneaking my phone out of my backpack, I slide it open and text my friend Tasha, who sits three seats to my right.
Me: Rick is a P-I-G pig!
Tasha: He needs to be spayed and neutered
Me: Wanna work on project together?
Tasha: Totally
Excellent. Now if Rick decides to bug me about it again, I have a legitimate excuse.
I spend the rest of the class period rolling my eyes as Rick tries to impress me by constantly raising his hand. Each time he does, he glances back with a deliberate expression of self-satisfaction. What he thinks he knows is beyond me. I can’t help but find it amusing, and if I had a blog I’d totally write about it. I guess since I haven’t had an actual boyfriend since, well, freshman year, I should be somewhat flattered. But…I am not.
Not. At. All.
After forty-five long minutes, the bell finally rings. I’m not one of those students who have all their supplies packed up before the class officially ends, so I’m still sitting at my desk, gathering my things, when most of the students have piled out of the room. Even Rick has fled.
I take my time entering the hallway full of bustling students. It’s somewhat of a crush, but as I move down the corridor, greeting friends along the way, a smile spreads across my face.
You know the scenes in the movies where the girl is walking down the hallway, and suddenly everything is in slow motion because the boy she’s fantasizing about sees her and turns to watch her from his locker? And sometimes in the movie a slight breeze causes the girl’s hair to blow around her face, making her appear incredibly hot? Well, that’s exactly what I’m going to pretend is happening to me right now.
Every fiber of my being urges me to look away because, okay, I’m panicking a little.
Because seriously, just like the few times before, Weston’s dark eyes are watching me so intently my skin is getting hot.
He’s got one arm raised up over his head, bracing himself against his open locker door, and my eyes trail down to the waistband of his dark jeans, which hang low on his hips, exposing a slice of his washboard abs. Don’t stare at his abs, don’t stare at his abs, I chant inside my head. Then, Please don’t let my neck get red, please don’t let my neck get red. My eyes quickly roam his body, and I notice he’s returning the favor.