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The boy who lies on the bench, a leg bent and a hand under his head, looks peaceful.
He’s dressed in jeans that hang low on his hips and a hoodie that’s flung up, revealing a hint of his abs and his V-line.
I swallow, forcing my gaze to focus on his face instead.
That’s totally not a better idea.
His face is nothing less than regal. He has the type of beauty that calls out to you without words. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and defined lips.
His brown hair that’s short on the sides and long at the top is messy, finger-raked, and the most beautiful hairstyle I’ve ever seen. I’ve always wondered what those longer strands would feel like.
Wondered.
That’s all I’ve done since I met this enigma. I’ve wondered and imagined and dreamed.
But they all came crashing down into one bleak reality.
He wants nothing to do with me. Or at least, that’s what I thought.
Point is, his disinterest should make me happy. It’s for the best, considering my fate was already sealed the day I was born.
I certainly don’t want him to get hurt because of me.
But at moments like these, I find myself inching closer, reaching to ease that crease between his thick brows.
Make it go away.
In a flash, a hand grabs my own and I swallow as he slowly opens his eyes.
Rich blue, rimmed with black.
The same eyes of the masked man who paid me a visit last night.
3
ANNIKA
Ican’t breathe properly.
I can’t even think properly.
I’ve been imagining this moment ever since I recognized those eyes. Chameleon, ocean eyes with rare heterochromia that I’ve never seen on anyone but him.
That’s what the black rings surrounding his blue eyes are called. Heterochromia. A perfect imperfection that’s part of who he is.
It was the first thing that tugged on my attention. And while many would say my attention is easy to get, no one knows it’s impossible to keep.
Yes, I continue to treat people nicely, remember their names and ask about their last social media post, but it’s all part of a feigned behavior. Whatever drew me to them in the first place has long since shriveled and died.
Creighton is the exception to that phenomenon. My interest in him started like with anyone else—mild, normal. Impersonal.
Little by little, it’s expanded into this boundless powerful interest that’s swept through me from the inside out.
My attention to him hasn’t waned. If anything, it’s grown more potent with every encounter, every stolen glance. Every touch.
Though they’ve never been sensual in nature.
As opposed to right now.
