Alex dragged his hand down his face and turned, annoyance flaring then melting away at the sound of her.
“I told you not to call me that. It’s embarrassing.” The edge was gone; something warmer took its place. Not soft exactly, but not the usual cold either.
“You call me Blondie, so we’re even.”
“You’re blond.”
“So?” She grinned. “Joshy—”
“Nope.” I shook my head, walking over to my car.
Jennie can call Alex whatever she wants, Lexi or whatever, but I refuse to be her fucking Joshy.
I leaned against the driver’s side door, listening as they kept bantering, Jennie’s laugh bright and constant, Alex’s responses clipped but gentler now.
Alex doesn’tdogentle, but for her? It comes out almost naturally; even when he’s in a really bad mood, he can’t seemtonotbe soft with her.
She—by a landslide—is his favourite girl.
My hand wrapped around the car door handle, ready to shut the day out, but something pulled me back. Just one last glance.
She was still there under the tree, shoulders tucked in, listening intently, nodding along to whatever that girl was saying. Still smiling, still the only person I see among the crowd.
I slipped into the driver’s seat, jaw tight. The engine roared to life, but the sound barely touched the noise in my head. That smile was carved there now, whether I wanted it or not. And I hated it. I wanted it. Both at once.
—
I got home, the city still buzzing under my windows, and tossed my keys onto the counter. I decided to go through my phone and saw a message from the group chat.
The soccer one.
Mark: Where’s the kick-off party this year? Who’s hosting?
I scoffed under my breath, thumb hovering over the screen. Every damn season, the same question. And every damn season, I ignored it.
I didn’t host, I didn’t show up, I didn’t waste my time getting drunk with idiots who could barely hold their own in practice.
My place isn’t a playground for drunk idiots to spill their cheap beer on the marble floors. But the thought kept gnawing at me.
What if she came?
Aurora Campbell.
In my space.
The image hit fast and filthy. She’d walk in dressed differently, looser, freer, maybe her little friend would drag her into something she doesn’t normally wear.
A skirt too short, a neckline too low. She’d look out of place in the noise, and still she’d shine, every pair of eyes locked on her, but none of them mattered because she’d be inmyspace.
What if she stayed late? What if the crowd cleared, and it was just her and me, her notebook nowhere in sight because there’d be no one left to save her from me, no excuse to hide behind ink and paper?
My skin crawled just imagining it, my chest tightening, heat rising under my collar until I could barely breathe.
I want her.
Enough to offer up my house.
Enough to drag myself out of my carefully built walls.
