Because of course, my dress is pink.
And I hate that he can so easily make me do that. He can so easily make me blush and leave me breathless.
“You,” he says in a raspy tone when he’s done looking me over. “Bubblegum pink.”
“I’m…”
I forget what I was going to say because after he’s done with his once-over of me, he moves on to my room. And I realize that this is the first time he’s staring at it, my personal sanctuary, my personal things.
My bedroom walls, the rugs on the floor, the desk by the window he climbed into.
All of which are soft and pastel shades of pink.
But it’s nothing compared to how hard he stares when his gaze finally reaches my bed.
At my rumpled sheets and my strewn-about pillows.
My diary.
He stares at it the hardest.
“You still call it Holly?” he asks when his eyes — super intense all of a sudden — come back to me.
My heart slams in my chest. “No.”
“Because it’s not pink.”
I swallow. “No, it’s not.”
“It’s the only thing in your room that’s not pink.”
“Yes.”
Yup, the only thing.
The most precious thing in the world to me is not pink. I know it doesn’t fit. It doesn’t make sense, but one day I got this urge to pack up my pink diaries and get a new one that’s brown leather.
Dark brown leather.
“So what is it called then?”
My heart beats so forcefully then that I feel like my chest is turning black and blue.
Mywhole bodyis turning black and blue.
“That’s…” I clear my throat. “None of your business.”
It isn’t.
Nothing about me or what I do is any of his business.
So I’m not sure why I feel a pinch in my chest when his expression shutters and a cool mask takes its place. “You’re right. Not my business at all.” He sweeps his eyes over my room once again before coming back to me. “But good to see that not everything in your room is covered in unicorn vomit.”
I purse my lips. “Now that you’ve insulted me to your heart’s content, do you mind telling me what you’re doing here.”
“Saying hey.”
“What?”