Page 11 of Not Your Little Girl Anymore

Tugging my earbuds out of my ears, I roll the cord around my phone and place it on my side before bringing my legs back to my chest.

Grieving sucks. It’s not really an emotion. It’s more of a deep cut that was never properly stitched together—left to never heal.

“Rough day?” a man to my left asks, but I don’t bother to look. I don’t have it in me to spare this stranger a glance. But I also don’t want to be known as the bitchy girl who sits on a park bench crying, either.

It might be too late for the second part.

I answer with a shrug. “You could say that.”

He plops beside me, sighing, and from my peripheral vision, I notice his jacket. My entire body tightens, and my heart jumps into overdrive.

I’ve seen that jacket.

Three days ago, I saw that jacket on a lead singer.

One that was staring at me during the whole first song.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

My eyes drift slowly to him, catching sight of the swirls of tattoos covering his right arm, dipping under the sleeve of his short sleeve shirt, and hovering to the permanent ink on his neck.

Holy hell.

When my eyes meet his, my stomach flips as I stare into the most intricate pale gray eyes I had ever seen. They complement his tan skin and sharp jawline. I clear my throat, irritated that he’s bothering me but even more so that my body is reacting this way.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he continues, realizing that I’m not going to answer him.

I don’t mean to huff—it sort of slips out. I force myself to look away, focusing on the ground instead. I can still see him from the corner of my eye, and I hang onto my legs tighter as I watch a small army of ants crawl into a hole in a crack in the cement walkway.

If I keep my attention on the ants, maybe he’ll go away.

Too bad, that doesn’t happen. His eyes just burn a hole into the side of my head, frustrating me even more. I’m also angry that he’s really attractive.

God, can he just leave me alone?

I wouldn’t have these weird butterflies in my stomach if he would just disappear.

He reaches his arm up to scratch between his eyes. “Let me tell you a story.” I side-eye him, and he chuckles. “When I was younger, I stuck my finger inside one of those holes and was attacked by an army of ants.”

My head shifts toward him. “I’m sorry, what?”

He’s joking, right? He has to be. Ants don’t attack people. There are only a handful of ants that actually bite.

He shrugs. “It’s a true story.”

I laugh. “Yeah, and I know how to fly.”

He stares at me curiously. “You don’t have to believe me, but I am an honorable man.” His hand comes up to his chest.

“Oh, come on. They are ants, not bees. Yes, they may bite you, but not unless there’s a lot of them. Not to mention the size of the hole. There is no way your finger would fit.” I shift in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest.

His lips curl upward. “Alright. Can’t fool you. But at least I got you to laugh.”

I frown, remembering why I’m sitting here in the first place. His eyes skim over me, taking in my puffy red eyes. For some reason, swirls wiggle through my stomach, making me feel even more flooded with emotions than I was.

This is embarrassing.

“I appreciate the gesture,” I admit, checking the time on my phone.

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