Ice-blue eyes, ones I used to stare into and get butterflies from, glitter down at me. “You look like you want to say something.” Just when I think I might combust from the intensity of his eyes, he looks away. He starts at my hair and works his way down to my feet, then comes back to my face. The silence builds between us, and he watches me intently, as if trying to figure me out. “How did you want to break up with me? Over candlelight? A text would have worked just fine,” I bite out. “I didn’t plan for things to happen that way.” His jaw clenches and he frowns, his brow furrowing. We both knew I wasn’t enough to keep your attention.” “Didn’t mean to what? Dump me in the middle of my own sorority’s party in front of all my friends and half of campus? And you know, that’s totally fine. You know what he sees, Charisma-someone who wasn’t up to his usual standards.Įverything I didn’t say last night rushes out. “I didn’t mean-” he stops, not finishing as he studies my face. I’m not your hookup anymore, football player.” How dare he? It was one thing to see him in a social setting and pretend I was fine, but when we’re face to face without people watching… “Don’t put your hands on me. 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.

Forgive and Forget by Charlie Cochet