Just as I’m gathering my shit to head out of here, a folder flutters to the floor in the row ahead of me and slides back in my direction. I pick it up and look around for the owner.
Everyone’s milling about, shuffling past, talking. But there, just one row ahead of me, in a crowded, chaotic high school auditorium, is a fucking goddess. She’s on the short side. Long blonde hair. Big green eyes. Tits that make me want to give back things I never even stole, and an ass that won’t quit. Holy Christ. That’s a lot of hot body in a tiny little frame and I’m fucking here for it. Blondie’s looking frantically around, then dives back into her bag, obviously searching for her lost folder.
“Looking for this?” I ask.
Her smile is immediate. “Oh my gosh. Yes. I must’ve dropped it. Thanks—” She reaches forward, but I'm just enough of an asshole to withhold it.
“Hang on. You don’t look familiar to me. Westfield’s not that big, and I would’ve definitely remembered meeting you.”
“I transferred here in January.”
“Likely story.” I nod and flash hera smile.
“Seriously. I transferred here from Jersey after the first of the year. Who would lie about that? I promise you, that’s my folder.”
“You sure about that? You sure you’re…” I glance down to read the typewritten name. And then I burst out laughing.
“Uh...are you ok?”
“Oh my God, no. I am not okay. You’re Willa Taylor Forsyth?” I can barely get the words out in between huffs of laughter.
“Yep. Now can I have my folder?”
The goddess looks supremely annoyed, but this joke is just too good. “Willa Taylor Forsyth,” I repeat. “Your initials are WTF. What the Fuck? And I mean that literally.”
She crosses her arms and rolls her eyes. “So they are. Now, can I have my folder?” she leans forward to read my name and I catch a glimpse of her full breasts as they fall forward against the v of her gray t-shirt, “Knox Emmett Gallagher. Oh my God. Look who’s talking?! Your initials are KEG.”
“And they’re actually really appropriate. But still, you gotta admit, nothing holds a candle to WTF. Did your parents hate you?” As soon as the question leaves my mouth, I curse myself for being an asshole of the highest order. Jesus. She winces at my poor attempt at a joke, and I mentally kick myself. “No shade—I, myself, am the spawn of assholes.”
“Well, it looks like we have more in common than crappy initials. My mom’s kind of a flake in a lot of ways, but in her defense, I’m not so sure WTF was a common phrase eighteen years ago.”
“Fair enough,” I concede.
“And really, it could be worse.”
Shrugging, I play along. “I guess. Maybe ASS?”
She laughs and I’d pay cash to hear that sound again.
“Or,” she giggles, “GAG. That would be bad.”
“Good thing I wasn’t named Gregory Alexander, then,” I say,desperate to keep this ridiculous conversation going. For the first time in a long damn time, I’m actually having fun. “So, are you heading out?” I ask lamely because that’s literally what we’re all doing.
“Yea,” she checks her phone. “I need to get to work, so… can I have my folder?”
“Right, yea,” I say, handing it back, and biting my bottom lip. My tongue runs over the lip ring I had pierced last summer.
“Thanks,” Her fingers brush mine as I return the folder to her and that contact alone is enough to make me want more. Yea, I only have four days of high school left, but damn if I don’t want to spend every one of them with Willa Taylor Forsyth.
Chapter 2
Knox
I getanother chance for conversation the next day. We received our tickets for graduation this morning and now the lobby is filled with students forming two lines: those who need more tickets, and those who have tickets to spare. I spot Willa in the latter and cut in front of a couple guys from the volleyball team. They barely notice—they’re deep in conversation about the upcoming district finals. I could give two shits about volleyball right now, though. All I care about is seeing her again.
Willa, her gorgeous green eyes, her smile, and hell yes, her curves, have been a constant presence in my thoughts for the last twenty-four hours.
“Well, if it isn’t Willa Taylor Forsyth,” I say, berating myself for becoming the king of clichéd pick-up lines. I usually have way more chill than this, but Willa throws me off my game, and for some reason, I like it.
