His friends were watching. I could feel it—eyes on me, waiting for me to trip up, to say something stupid, to flinch.
But I didn't flinch.
Instead, I smiled. "You always this charming or just when you're bored and slumming it with the commoners?"
His smirk deepened. “You think I’m bored?”
“Not sure. You look like you’re trying really hard not to be.”
For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Interest. Challenge. Maybe even respect.
Then—like a scene straight out of a Wattpad cliché—he stepped closer. Close enough that the fire lit gold in his eyes, and my pulse went full-on ‘dramatic TikTok audio’ mode.
“You’re kinda mouthy for someone who just got here.”
“And you’re kinda full of yourself for someone who thinks Snap scores still matter.”
That earned a grin.
And then—he kissed me.
No warning. No setup. Just firelight, smoke, and the reckless kind of kiss that gets you into trouble before your brain has a chance to file acomplaint.
It wasn’t soft.
It was bold, messy, hot—the kind of kiss that steals your breath and uploads itself straight to your memory bank underdo not forget ever.
Gasps. Laughter. Someone definitely got it on video.
And just like that, I knew:I’d just become content.
And not the cute kind.
Leo pulled back like nothing happened, like he didn’t just detonate my world in front of half the school. “Welcome to Royal Oaks, new girl.”
Then he walked away.
And I just stood there, heart racing, mascara probably smudged, realizing two things at once:That kiss was the best and worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I just made myself a headline.
Tomorrow, my name would be in every group chat, every private story, every whispered hallway conspiracy.
And Leo Holt?
He’d made me a target…
Chapter Three
LEO
Bonfiresat the lot were always the same.
Overdressed girls in white linen pretending they weren’t freezing. Jocks shotgunning beers like they’d just discovered frat culture. Trust fund kids trying to look edgy in scuffed Golden Goose sneakers that cost more than most people’s rent.
Fake laughs. Staged Snapchats. Somebody's Bluetooth speaker blasting music that was cool six weeks ago.
I leaned against the tailgate of my truck, drink in hand, watching it all like a show I’d seen too many times.
Tristan was holding court a few feet away, retelling the same story about getting kicked off a rented scooter in Capri last summer. Xavier was talking stocks with a girl who looked like she’d just stepped out of a Tory Burch catalog.
