Xander Chapman.
He strode toward her, and even his walk was detestable, those ridiculous long legs clad in black trousers made of fine material and leather boots that were so clean, they shone. His strides were confident; he practically sauntered.
He wore a white blouse with billowing sleeves and a waistcoat that accented his slim waist and outrageously broad shoulders. The waistcoat was emerald green, the same shade as his eyes. The only thing worse than the waistcoat was his hair: silky locks that were the deep copper-brown of leaves in autumn and which added a good few inches to his already towering height.
More than a handful of village girls stared at him, pointing and giggling. Bisma’s hands tightened around her cart as he approached. She considered making a run for it, but knowing Xander, he would only chase after her.
Deplorable man.
‘Well met, Bis,’ he said, standing in front of her. He flashed her a brilliant smile, showcasing his perfect teeth and those deep dimples in his flawless cream-colored skin.
One of her eyes twitched. That was another thing. He sometimes called her by a nickname, as though they were intimate friends.
‘Alexander.’ She put as much disdain as she could into each syllable. She did not even know if Alexander was his full name, but it was the opposite of calling him a nickname. Not that he cared; his lips spread into another easy smile.
He wasalwayssmiling.
And why wouldn’t he? What worry in the world did he have? He was rich, loved, respected, beautiful, and … good.
She hated him and his perfect life.
He had both his parents, and they were madly in love with another, and it was clear that their only child had been born of that love and was doted on as a result. He had spent most of his youth in Whitebridge receiving a private education and had returned to Old Town a few years ago, where he had easily slotted into his family’s business, made friends with just about every local, and had girls falling at his feet wherever he went.
The very people who spat on Bisma as she walked past practically kissed the ground Xander walked on.
And like the spoiled, bored man that he was, he was constantly trying to entrap her.
Why else would he go out of his way to see her whenever she came to town? Xander had no reason to be interested in her in any genuine way. He had everything a guy could want—why would he ever want her, an Unwanted Girl, and the very worst one at that?
He looked at her with those glittering green eyes and charming smile, asking her questions in his posh velvet accent, only to seduce and humiliate her.
Bisma had heard the stories from her elder sisters when she was younger; how the boys of Old Town loved to place bets to see who might tame one of the Unwanted Girls, how they would pretend to be enamored by them only to drop them once their conquest was complete.
Bisma had seen first-hand how Eva had fallen in love with a villager who had only been playing with her. He broke her heart, and Eva cried for weeks.
Even then, Bisma had not heeded her older sisters’ warnings, until at the age of sixteen, she grew feelings for a villager of her own and faced the very same fate.
She had sworn she would never fall for it again.
No matter how adamant Xander was with his ridiculous attentions, bringing her flowers or sweets or, worst of all, kind words and an even kinder gaze, she would not succumb to his nefarious plans.
Case in point: Xander pulled a flower from his breast pocket and held it out for her between long, slender fingers. She watched as the yellow petals morphed to dark emerald green to match the birthday dress she was wearing beneath her black sweater.
Xander was a garden-witch—just like her—but he was an obnoxious show-off, where Bisma was not.
He bent forward, and she inhaled the spicy sweet scent of cloves that always emanated from him. With a smile, he held the flower out for her. She plucked it from his hand and held it between her mehndi-covered fingers. His face grew pleased, dimples appearing in his cheeks.
Until rot spread through the flower, darkening the petals till they shriveled. Bisma dropped the flower and stomped on it, grinding it into the dirt for good measure.
Rather than be offended, his smile only deepened.Stubborn ass!
He placed a hand on his heart. ‘You do know how to make a man feel special.’
‘Man?’ she asked, looking around. ‘Where? I only see an overgrown boy.’
‘I am a year older than you, you know,’ he said in his know-it-all voice. ‘And on that note, happy belated birthday. That was what the flower was for, by the way. Before you mercilessly killed it.’
She narrowed her eyes; he was thorough. How did he find out when her birthday was?
