Page 5 of Icing Hearts

His eyes never quite find mine as he walks, but he strolls to my study table, nonetheless, moving at a treacherously sluggish pace.

One of the gabby librarians drops her fork into her glass travel dish with a clatter when she spots Tory, and I stifle a giggle. I get it. Her reaction mirrors my own feelings whenever he enters the room. The way people respond to him strokes Tory’s ego on a near-constant basis.

I remain unconvinced that anyone actually gets accustomed to his beauty. It’s my steadfast theory that the humans who interact with Victory Amato on a regular basis simply learn to suppress their reactions—their natural instinct to gawk. Sometimes I enjoy watching people lay eyes on Tory for the first time. New students at the beginning of the school year. Spectators at hockey games before he puts on his helmet. Those with perfect speech stutter and stumble over their words. Cheeks, necks, and ears bloom pink, peach, or mauve.

He’s not the kind of beauty that one can get used to. The kind where one wakes up one day, looks at the person they previously found perfect and notices the bags under their eyes, or that their ears stick out too far. Victory isn’t the kind of beautiful you forget about. There are people who are gorgeous, yes, and maybe initially you swoon, but, over time, they become just another attractive person. Someone you can actually have a conversation with.

Well, that’s not Tory.

Tory is so beautiful that it violently smacks you in the face every single time you look at him. The kind of beautiful that makes people squirm with discomfort.

He’s rugged, yet angelic.

Poetic, yet blasphemous.

Unkempt, yet meticulous.

Looking at Tory is like looking at the sun. Life-giving, yet utterly destructive.

These are the thoughts swirling through my mind when he finally reaches me. Tory drops a greasy paper bag on the study table before plopping into the scratchy, cushioned chair with a huff. I force an exasperated breath through my teeth.

“Tory,” I say by way of greeting.

He stares at me. I stare back.

Seconds tick by and he says nothing, just holds my gaze in some sort of predatory stand-off. I blink a few times and give in. “Uh, it’s kinda late. I assumed practice would end earlier.”

“Practice ended at five.”

“It’s after eight. The library is closing soon.” I motion to the giant ticking clock on the wall.

“Look who knows how to use a big girl clock.”

“Where have you been for three hours?” I probe.

“With Tiffany Kennedy,” he drawls her name with an accompanying smirk, and it eats a hole in my stomach.

“Wasn’t she Miss Teen Minnesota last year?”

“Sheis. Currently. Her reign lasts until the next pageant.”

I want to slap the smirk off his face. Something about his insouciance suddenly irks me to my core. I shake my head as I open my history binder, now back out and residing between Tory and me, and pull out the assignment description.

But I look up and he’s staring at me. Studying with an intensity that sends goosebumps down the back of my neck. And I’m suddenly ill at ease under his inexplicable scrutiny.

I swallow and attempt to begin our work. “So, I was thinking we can divide the readings in half and you can do two and I’ll do—”

“Do you drive?” he interrupts.

“I have my license, but I don’t have a car. So, you can read two and—”

“Why not?” His question cuts me off again.

“I’m saving up for one.”

“Your dad won’t buy you one?”

“No.” Even if we had the money, the chief wouldn’t buy me a car. Not a new one. Not a beater that was born before me.

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