Spitfire in Love (Chasing Red 3)

The sharp curve of his jaw.

His neck.

The shape of his mouth.

His mouth.

The long lines of his arms.

His mouth.

He had lion eyes, heavy-lidded and piercing—the kind that could make your knees weak if he glanced at you even for just one second. Or slash your heart and make it bleed if he dismissed you.

I thought those sharp blue eyes were uncaring, somehow detached from everything around him. But they looked sad somehow.

And that sadness made me want to look longer, made my greedy heart want.

I want to know why he’s sad.

I want him to want to tell me.

I want to be beautiful enough to be with him.

And that last part woke me up from my daydreaming, like scalding water splashed on my hand. I saw his friend sneak up from behind him and pull his pants down.

As soon as he turned away from me, I flipped my hoodie up, face burning, and ran the opposite direction.

What the hell? Beautiful enough to be with him?

I’d be damned if I let the same insecurities I had when I was a kid plague me again. Beautiful faces don’t affect me anymore. Well…to be honest, maybe a little. But it had been a long time since a gorgeous face had triggered me to wish I were someone else.

Getting physically and mentally bullied for my looks, my height, the fact that my family was very poor, and my mother running off with another man had made me feel insecure. It made me wish to be someone else, made me believe that if I were beautiful, maybe the world would be easier on me.

I knew better now. It made me wary of everyone, made me learn how to fight, made me defensive and combative.

So what was it about him?

I decided I didn’t like him.

In fact, I hoped I’d never see him again. I had no business thinking about a boy who wouldn’t pay attention to me anyway and that I normally wouldn’t pay attention to.

I was sure I wasn’t even a blip on his radar.

The girls in the hallway gave me a wide berth, throwing a nervous glance my way before turning the corner.

I rolled my eyes. I was having a moment here.

There must have been something in that lasagna. Or, if I was being honest with myself, the disappointing inability of my body to process dairy.

The instant I thought of it, my stomach began to cramp.

Oh shit.

Something was trying to bubble out of me.

And from the unearthly sounds my stomach was making, I knew I was going to suffer.

I knew it. I fucking knew it. And in my head, I knew I deserved it for being a greedy pig.