Kissing in Cars (Kiss and Make Up #1)(7)

Normally, I don't take this much time in the morning to get ready. My mom is probably down in the kitchen wondering why I'm up so darn early.

I won't lie.

We all know it's because of that damn Weston McGrath.

Soon enough I'm taking my seat in Marketing first period with one of my favorite teachers, Mrs. Paul. Short, gray, pudgy, and in her early 60's, Mrs. Paul reminds me of my grandma. Also, she doesn't put up with any crap, so it's always a riot when she unleashes her fury on someone in class.

As I'm organizing my homework and removing it from my Marketing folder, a large body slides into the seat next to mine that doesn't belong there. It's Rick Stevens, and he's wearing a white hockey tee shirt with the saying "Stitches Get Bitches" on it.

Classy. Real classy.

"Damn Wakefield, you clean up nice." Rick has an idiot grin on his face that I want to slap off his face, and he's leaning over the desk blatantly peering at my chest. Technically it could be considered a leer. "Nice...necklace."

Only, I'm not wearing a necklace. Gross.

Isn't he a little young to be a lecherous pig?

I don't respond, choosing to ignore him. What guy calls a girl by her last name, anyways? I thought guys only did that to each other.

"Do you need a "tutor" for the mid-term project?" he asks, wiggling his eyebrows. And gross, did he just use air quotes when he said the word tutor? "I'm really good at giving instruction."

"Er, no, I'm good. Thanks."

"Do you want a 'study buddy'?" he asks, once again using his fingers to punctuate the words 'study buddy' with air quotes.

"I'll do the project entirely on my own, thanks."

"So how's about you and me —" fortunately he is cut off.

"Mister Stevens, pah-lease stop harassing Miss Wakefield and take your assigned seat," comes the stern voice of Mrs. Paul. She says the word 'mister' in such a scandalized tone that it has me snorting in an unladylike way behind my folder. Rick stands up, stretches his arms and puffs his chest out while throwing me what he probably considers a suggestive smile and walks to his desk in the front of the room.

Gross. He's like an oily used car salesman. Jenna would be dying right now if she could see this. Absolutely in hysterics. She loves it when I'm uncomfortable, damn her. Sneaking my phone out of my backpack, I slide it open and text to my friend Tasha, who sits three seats to my right.

Me: rick is a P-I-G pig!

Tasha: he needs 2 b spayed and neutered

Me: wanna work on project 2gether?

Tasha: ttlly :)

Excellent. Now if Rick decides to bug me about it again, I have a legitimate excuse.

I spend the rest of the class period rolling my eyes as Rick tries to impress me by constantly raising his hand. Each time he does, he glances back with a deliberate expression of self-satisfaction. What he thinks he knows is beyond me. I can't help but find it amusing, and if I had a blog I'd totally write about it. I guess since I haven't had an actual boyfriend since, well - freshman year - I should be somewhat flattered. But...I am not.

Not. At. All.

After forty-five long minutes, the bell finally rings. I'm not one of those students that has all my supplies packed up before the class officially ends, so I'm still sitting at my desk gathering my things when most of the students have piled out of the room. Even Rick has fled.

I take my time, entering the hallway full of bustling students. It's somewhat of a crush, but as I move down the corridor greeting friends along the way, a smile spreads across my face.

You know the scenes in the movies where the girl is walking down the hallway and suddenly everything is in slow motion because the boy she's fantasizing about sees her and turns to watch her from his locker? And sometimes in the movie a slight breeze blows, causing the girls hair to blow around her face, making her appear incredibly hot? Well, that's exactly what I'm going to pretend is happening to me right now.

Every fiber of my being urges me to look away because, okay, I'm panicking a little.

Because seriously just like the few times before, Weston's dark eyes are watching me so intently my skin is getting hot.

He's got one arm raised up over his head, bracing himself against his open locker door, and my eyes trail down to the waistband of his dark jeans, which hang low on his hips exposing a slice of his washboard abs. Don't stare at his abs, don't stare at his abs I chant inside my head. Then...Please don't let me neck get red, please don't let my neck get red. My eyes quickly roam his body and I notice he's returning the favor.

His eyes are raking over my body, too. I silently give thanks for my great boobs and long reddish hair, because he obviously appreciates it. Thank you mother for the wonderful genes.

I tilt my head and look him directly in the eyes, smiling warmly.

He cocks an eyebrow, obviously taken off guard.

I resist the urge to smirk in satisfaction.

I pass by and can feel his gaze trailing after me. When I turn my head to focus on walking, I run smack into a solid chest. Great. Just freaking great. Rick Stevens of all people, probably on his way to Weston's locker, since Rick follows Weston pretty much everywhere like a puppy dog. The books in my arms get jostled loose, falling to the floor. I don't wait for Rick to help me (mostly because he's such an ass), bending at the knees to pick them up.