Page 87 of Dear Love, I Hate You (Easton High)

“What makes you so sure we don’t mean it?” I counter.

“Brie used to say she hated me all the time when she clearly didn’t. It’s a thing you girls do. Say I hate you to guys you don’t.”

Damn it, ladies. Who the hell let him in on our secret?

We had a deal.

“So, what?” I scoff. “I hate you means I love you now, is that it?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“So, according to your theory, I just told you I loved you?”

“Sure did.” He nods. “You see, whenever you tell me I hate you from now on, it’ll mean the opposite. I don’t make the rules,” he declares, smirking like the cocky bastard that he is, and I flush, propping the side of my forehead against the ice-cold classroom wall.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” I whisper, my closing eyes clouded by heavy lids.

“Thanks, I try.”

We stare at each other in silence.

I overanalyze his features.

His blade-sharp jaw, his strong cheekbones. And that light brown hair… Good Lord, don’t even get me started on his hair. The guy could pull off the stylishly messy look in his sleep. The tension in the air thickens faster than should be legal, and I seek an escape from the aqua eyes boring into my soul.

It’s too quiet.

Too intimate.

If this were a movie, one of us would be going in for the kiss. And in a perfect world, it’d be him. But in this one? I sever the eye contact, hoping to disrupt the magnetic pull drawing me closer to him. My eagerness to outrun my feelings leads me to notice a piece of silly string tangled in his hair.

I smile.

“Did you get sprayed with silly string tonight by any chance?”

“Might’ve had a silly string battle in the locker room. Why?” His voice is raspy, sleepy. He’s barely keeping himself awake as it is, and I’m not doing much better.

“It’s in your hair.” I release a quiet chuckle. “Hold on.”

I scoot over until I’m close enough to pick the tiny silly string off the top of his head and dangle it in front of his eyes to show him. Only issue is… it’s not the string he’s looking at.

It’s me.

Just me.

He stares down my face intently.

Attempting to decode what this guy is thinking feels like trying to translate a long-forgotten language. I should back away, retreat to an acceptable distance before I embarrass myself, but I can’t move a muscle. My throat feels clogged, my lips so dry I instinctively wet them with the tip of my tongue.

Xavier’s eyes shadow the motion.

He’s looking at my mouth now.

Hard.

Holy. Fucking. Cheese-balls.

Then he leans forward.