Page 4 of Stuffed

The numbers blur together as I lean against my Corvette, cigarette dangling from my lips. Another failing business, another stack of reports showing exactly why. Dad might think I'm playing with fire giving financial advice at this age, but I can read a balance sheet better than half of the accountants out there. And no amount of him preaching at me to focus on school so I can graduate and work at his insurance firm is going to stop me.

"Just sell the damn thing," I mutter into my phone, watching the snow drift down. "The longer you hold on to it, the more money you'll lose."

The business owner on the other end starts arguing, but I've already stopped listening. Because there she is—Tessa fucking Marlow, pressed against the library window, pretending to study while she watches me.

She thinks I don't notice. They all think that—that I'm too wrapped up in my own bullshit to see the whispers, the stares. But I notice everything. Especially her.

"Listen," I cut the guy off. "My lunch break's over. Call me when you're ready to take my advice."

I hang up, taking a long drag of my cigarette. Through the window, I can see her friend trying to get her attention. Probably talking about the winter formal or some other bullshit I couldn't care less about.

But Tessa's still watching me.

She shouldn't interest me. She's everything I hate about this place—the perfect cheerleader with her perfect life, floating through high school on popularity and pep rallies. The kind of girl who would never look twice at the black sheep—the fuckup.

Except she does look. All the fucking time.

I've caught her staring in the hallways, in the cafeteria, at my brother's stupid parties. Always with those big blue eyes that seem to see right through my carefully constructed walls.

"Fuck this," I mutter, crushing my cigarette under my boot. I need to get out of here, away from the temptation to look back at her.

The bell rings as I'm heading to the parking lot. I round the corner and suddenly she's there, crashing into my chest like some kind of cosmic joke.

"Shit, sorry," I say, my hands moving to steady her before she falls. She's so delicate. It’s no wonder she’s the one getting tossed around during her cheerleader performances.

"It's okay," she squeaks, and something in my chest tightens at the sound. "My fault."

I look down at her, and for a moment, I let myself really see her. Not just the cheerleader uniform or the perfect blond ponytail, but her. The intelligence behind those eyes. The slight tremble in her lower lip. The way her breath catches when I touch her.

It would be so easy to keep holding her. To back her up against the lockers and find out if she tastes as sweet as she looks.

Danger flashes in my mind.

"You're Asher's friend, right?" I force myself to let go, step back. "The cheerleader?"

"Tessa," she says, and fuck if her breathless voice doesn't do things to me. "We've actually met before. At your house, when?—"

"Right." I cut her off before she can remind me of that night—her in those tiny shorts, laughing at something my brother said while I watched from the shadows, wanting what I couldn't have. "Tell my brother I need those car keys back by six."

I walk away before I can do something stupid, like ask why she watches me. Like tell her I watch her too. Instead of skipping, I decide to stay, the thought that maybe I’ll see her again lingering in the back of my mind.

In my next class, I can't focus on anything except the lingering warmth of her body against mine. The way she fit perfectly in my hands. The soft catch in her breath when she said my name.

This is exactly why I keep my distance. Girls like Tessa Marlow are nothing but trouble. They make you want things you can't have, dream about futures that don't exist for guys like me.

My phone buzzes—another failing business owner wanting advice. Good. Numbers I can handle. Balance sheets don't make promises they can't keep. Profit margins don't look at you with eyes full of possibilities.

But as I stare at the spreadsheet, all I can think about is the way she whispered my name. How her whole body seemed to lean into my touch, like she wanted more.

Like maybe she sees past the bad boy exterior to something worth wanting.

"You're fucked," I mutter to myself, shoving my phone away. Because she's barely sixteen and innocent and everything I'm not.

Because wanting her is dangerous and for the first time in my life, I'm not sure I'm strong enough to keep my distance.

After class, I light another cigarette, trying to burn away the memory of her body against mine. But it's no use. Tessa Marlow has gotten under my skin, and I'm starting to think she's been there a lot longer than I want to admit.

God help us both.

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