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And bad.

For me. Very bad.

I stop about five feet from him. He’s parked his black car next to mine, on the drivers side. I can’t help but think that’s not a coincidence. Sweat has cooled my skin, and my need to brush away my wayward hairs is stemmed by my desire to not look like I’m primping in front of him. I’m wearing my sports tank that’s a razorback, exposing my collarbones, shoulders and shoulder blades. My shorts are high-thigh and tight, and I know my legs and butt look good in them.

I wish I’d brought sweats and a sweater. His eyes flick down to my toes, meandering up my body, and settle on my lips. He stares at them a little too long.

“What do you want, Emmett?” I demand. I don’t want to walk closer to him or to my car, so I stay put. “I’m not in the mood.”

He unhitches himself from the car, and I contemplate making a break for it. But instead I’m rooted to the concrete, a tiny voice in my ear saying bad move, Ophelia.

“You know,” he says, “I’ve been trying to think of how to