Page 147 of Faking It With the Small-Town Bad Boy

counting each time I can feel a ripped seam in the shotty sewing job.

Her car comes to a screeching halt.

One.

Leah jumps out of the car, looking to the shop as if to see me there,

but she’s too late. I’ve already walked away from that thought, but it’s

still prevalent in my mind.

Two.

My body begins to shake in need, in despair, as she runs towards the

porch, her sweet eyes not finding mine yet as she scales up the steps

in two long, leaping bounds.

Three.

Her heart breaks on her face, and I can see it, my hands fighting to

feel the broken seams on my jeans just to keep myself grounded—but

I realize now how it’s becoming compulsive.

Four.

She throws her arms around my neck, falling to her knees between

my legs, keeping me latched in a firm embrace. I finally gain the

courage to release the lip of fabric on the sides of my pants, my hands

strolling along her back where I find her spine and settle into this

hug. It’s a fight to keep focused, a bloody battle not to count the little

nobs of her spine with my fingertips, or to press my thumbs into her

back dimples that I’ve seen and admired before.

“Hey, look at me,” she pleads, something telling me she’s been asking

for my attention for a while now. “Are you okay?”

I know all too soon she saw what happened, and humiliation isn’t

even the right word to describe what floods through my warm blood.

My lips twitch to the side as if wanting to find the mouth of a bottle

that’s not there, and I’m shaking all over like an earthquake rips

under the thin sheet of my skin.

“Relax, Percy, please,” she says.

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