Like he knows things. Like he’s seen things. Like he’s touched women in ways I can’t even begin to imagine.
And fuck, I want to know.
I don’t even realize how long I’m staring.
I could be standing here forever.
But he doesn’t notice me.
That’s new.
That’s unacceptable.
I force my gaze away, at the drab little office worker he’s talking to.
I take a step forward. Clear my throat.
“I need to register for next semester,” I say, keeping my voice light, sweet, careful. I don’t even know what he likes yet.
And that’s not good.
He moves, shifting his weight slightly and then he reaches out and pats her hand.
I hate that.
I hate that she gets his attention.
Is she his?
She’s so dull. Her clothes are thoughtless. Bland, uninspired. Office wear.
A man like him deserves better.
A man like him deserves me.
And then, just as I’m stewing in my own jealousy, he looks at me.
And oh.
Oh.
My breath catches.
His gaze meets mine, holds it, lingers like he’s assessing.
Like he’s seeing right through me.
Like he knows exactly what I am.
Then he smirks.
Just a little. Just enough.
And my stomach?
Fucking plummets.
Oh, god.
