“Hey, I’m Natalie,” I say, trying not to come off like some breathless groupie, but it’s hard when I’m speed walking to keep in step with him.
“I know who you are,” he says.
He still doesn’t look at me or make any attempt at conversation. Heat rises in my body and my blood starts to boil. Maybe Jack was right and I should have just let him have a panic attack and pass out. Jerk.
“I just wanted to see if you were okay after what happened the other day, but clearly you’re fine.”He doesn’t answer, just keeps walking—increasing the pace with his long, muscular legs until he shoves the door open and we’re outside. The cold wind rips through to my bones. Why am I still following him? I stop walking, but he advances on…like I don’t exist.
I shout after him. “You gave me a bruise, you know!”
He freezes and turns back to me. I wait for an apologetic glance, a surreptitious “I’m sorry.” Anything that shows remorse.
None of that happens.
Instead, he storms back to me—coming so close to my face that I can smell his warm, minty breath. Without a word, he yanks the books from my hands.
“Hey!” I shout, trying to wrestle them back. My textbook slams to the ground and I manage to rip back my notebook, leaving him holding Ciel’s note.
I swallow, horrified, as he unfolds it and reads the words to himself—Scholarship kid is so into you. With anger dancing in his eyes, he crumples the note and throws it at me. The paper bounces off my chest. My mind races with fury, but I’m too shocked to say or do anything.
He leans into me, his lips hovering close to mine. I should back away, scream at him, smack him, throw the note at him—but I don’t. I’m frozen, paralyzed with intensity and electricity, sweltering with emotion. I can’t stop staring at his lips—plump, red, moist. A centimeter from touching mine.
“I’m not into you,” he says in a throaty, choppy groan.
Then he walks away, and I swallow the retort stuck in my throat. I want to scream after him—tell him I don’t give a shit how he feels because I would never be into someone like him.
But I won’t. Because that would be weakness. And I’m not fucking weak. I am curious, though. Who are you, Henry Thorne? And why do you hate me? You can run away all you want, but I’ll find out the truth.
.png)
No comments:
Post a Comment