Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

Deciding to forget what she said, I quickly wiped our table before snatching my backpack to leave. Sure enough, two girls quickly snagged our seats. I gave them a thumbs-up.

I had another hour or so to spare before my next class started, so I decided to head over to my department’s lounge area to pass the time.

The hallways had lockers on one side and floor-to-ceiling glass windows on the other, flooding the interior with rich sunlight. Students sat on the floor or stood, leaning against their red lockers, chatting with each other. I’d once heard from a transfer student that they didn’t have lockers in college in their country. In Esther Falls College in Manitoba, Canada, we had lockers. I counted myself very lucky.

I stopped in my tracks when I remembered that I needed an ID card to get into my department’s lounge. I pulled my backpack in front of me, rummaging for my ID card when I was suddenly compelled, for some reason I couldn’t identify, to look up at that precise moment—and saw him.

His face belonged to a dark archangel, and his hair was as dark as Lucifer’s soul. It curled below his jaw, flirting with the collar of his shirt.

My brain stopped working. All I could think was Are they shooting a movie on campus? Who is he?

He continued walking, unaware of everything—that or he didn’t really care. His stride was confident, as if he owned the damned place. Broad shoulders, long legs.

Everything on him was black: black shirt, black jeans, black combat boots, black backpack. So much so that when I looked up in his eyes, the impact was like a punch to the stomach.

His eyes were piercing blue.

It was only a moment—a very brief moment—when our eyes met.

But I knew.

The lasagna wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life.

He was.

Chapter 2

Cameron

“Shit.”

I stood in the street in front of my house and looked up at the bright morning sky. Closing my eyes as the heat of the sun pounded against my lids, I tried to find my calm. Counted to five.

One. Two. Three—

Didn’t work. I lowered my head and took a deep breath before I opened my eyes.

There was a deep gouge on the fender of my motorcycle.

Curling my hand into a fist, I bit my knuckle.

A quick inspection found more scratches all over the side fairing and the engine cover was completely busted. Hit-and-run, I thought, grinding my teeth. Someone had crashed into my bike, and whoever hit it took the time to put it upright before fleeing the scene.

Thank you very much, motherfucker.

I crouched in front of it, stroking the once-smooth surface, now all banged up—the metal felt ridged and sharp under my fingertips. I’d had this ride for so long it felt like a piece of me.

Someone was going to pay.

I stood up slowly. When my phone rang, I didn’t even look to see who it was and grabbed it like a lifeline.

“Yeah?”

“Hey, Cam.”

It was Caleb.

I probably should have said something nicer, but all I could grit out was another sharp “Yeah.”