I wanted, so badly, to draw him.
To capture his face in ink, in pencil, in charcoal, in paint. Oils first, then acrylics. I’d even try watercolor, just to see if I could match the color of his skin that was like gold but not. Black Irish. Everything about him screamed it.
Blacker than black hair, rich blue eyes.
Damn.
Just, damn.
I licked my lips, aware I was staring and unable to stop myself. He was so much more than I’d anticipated, like a rock star had come storming into the cafeteria rather than another student.
And I knew I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.
Conversation hadn’t stopped, but it had definitely toned down. People were watching him, watching his crew, and a weird feeling hit my stomach, something that made me feel hot and shivery as I saw how he commanded the place without even trying.
His gaze darted around the room, and when he found Deirdre, whose back was to him, and who was deep in the middle of a conversation about how the knee socks made her ankles look fat, I expected him to smile—or do something that indicated he liked her.
If anything, his mouth pulled taut, his eyes pinched, and a strange kind of…no. That couldn’t be.
His features twisted slightly, marring his beauty, before one of his friends caught his attention and his focus broke as he replied.
Then, after he had, and he grinned at whatever they’d been talking about, he turned back to Deirdre.
I sucked in a breath.
He looked at her like he hated her.
Then he looked at me, and I knew why.
Like any predator, he’d scented prey, and my reaction had drawn his eyes to me.
Only, when he looked atme, it was the exact opposite of hatred that flashed over his face. He looked startled. Surprised. He even halted in his tracks, which had his buddies bumping into him, which forced him to carry on moving. His nostrils flared for a split second before he managed to get his features under control.
By that time, I ducked my head and focused on my lunch.
As I stared at the baby carrots I’d been dunking in ranch, my mind raced a mile a minute.
What had just happened?
Why had he looked at Deirdre like he hated her, then looked at me as if he didn’t?
Feeling overheated and sweaty—neither of which was pleasant in my polyester uniform—I forced my lungs to calm, my heart to slow down. Then he approached my table, and all hell broke loose.
I thought I was going to burn to a pile of ash on the seat, especially when he put his hand on the table and leaned on it.
His body was beside me, his heat so close that the ash thing could still happen, and his scent? Sweet baby Jesus. I’d never smelled anything like it.
It was like heat and man and musk and mint and citrus.
Who smelled like that when they were a teenager? Shouldn’t he reek of Axe?
I licked my lips, well aware that, though he was beside me, he didn’t look at me again. His focus was on Deirdre, and his voice? Unpleasant.
Oh, not his actual voice. That was deep and husky. Again, making me wonder if he’d had to stay back a grade or something because he was soold.He felt so much more mature than anyone else.
Aware I was sweating like I’d been in P.E. all morning, I hunched my shoulders as I recognized that the inherent dislike I’d seen on his face when he’d looked at Deirdre was totally present in his tone too.
She didn’t notice. Her cheeks turned bright pink, her eyes glittered, and she stared at him like he was a trophy she coveted.