John Rachel

I looked down into her big brown eyes and told myself I felt nothing. As usual, it was a lie.

My heart wasn’t free to give. It already belonged to this spitfire who didn’t want it.

I was immune to his charms. Thinking about him on the weekends too was just asking for trouble.

For a long time I’d convinced myself it was totally one-sided, that it was wishful thinking on my part to ever assume she did it on purpose. But my gut said she felt something too, a magnetic connection between us that would only lead to trouble.

Not acknowledging it, letting it be this delicious mystery between us, was not good. And yet, I wasn’t about to say something. She’d deny it and make me feel like a jerk

“Hate you,” she muttered under her breath.

“I hated you first,” I whispered back.

I didn’t choose the guys, and I certainly didn’t make her break up with them. That was on her. All I did was open up a window of doubt, and she did the rest.

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t matter. Clay had always been there. I should be bored with him by now, despite his dark blue-gray eyes, his wavy brown hair, and his big strong hands that could fix anything. Stupid crush.

She did a combination grunge-rock head bob and air guitar move, obviously psyching herself up for a good workout.

I stepped into her line of vision before we reached blackmail level, where she’d pay me a million dollars to never tell anyone what I’d just witnessed.

“You called my neck red and blotchy.”

“Your neck is beautiful in any color and you know it.”

I looked away so he wouldn’t see me smile. “Thank you, I guess.”