His fingers are a hot brand on my skin-it’s the first time we’ve touched in three months-and I pull away. “I don’t need help,” My voice is strangled as I move to brush past him-forget the textbooks-but he reaches out and takes my elbow. I stare at him a little too long, until I snap out of it. His face is unshaven, the darkness on his jawline adding a broody look. Of course, he looks magnificent in a tight long-sleeved black shirt that clings to his broad chest and tapered jeans molded to those leg muscles. Today it’s flat-soled red Converse, black joggers, and a Yankees sweatshirt. I ease back on my feet and whip around, internally wishing I’d worn something more I hate you and don’t you wish you still had me, but sadly, I’m not in my kickass shoes and itchy dress. Let me,” Blaze says, this time closer, his voice soft. My heart does a nosedive off a cliff as that familiar gruff voice washes over me, his accent a smooth drawl that’s reminiscent of hot summer nights and slow kisses-kisses we never had…well, except for that one time freshman year. I’m on my tiptoes when the question comes, trying to reach a book on the top shelf in the bookstore at the student center.
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